SHE WHO CHOOSES – A Poem by Priestess Bairavee Balasubramaniam, PhD
No sir, I shall not grace you with a smile because you expect me to,
Don’t you dare invite yourself to my table, this space isn’t for you,
Why do you fret when I am unwilling to entertain you?
Why do you look pained when I refuse to speak to you with my golden tongue?
And no – I’m not bitter, broken, divorced, widowed – or as you might think – a crone, harridan, hag, witch, bitch, or shrew.
Words that strike fear straight to you.
I AM She Who Chooses…
I am woman, I am Goddess, I am born of She,
And that space of warmth, of love and desire,
The Mother in my Heart the Child in my Womb,
Maiden, Mother, Crone, Sister, Wife, Daughter,
All I Am. All I Be.
Why oh why do men presume that women must welcome them so?
You’re not my teacher, my lover, my friend, or my beau,
They certainly don’t ask other men to do the same…..
Perhaps they should…
But if we don’t – unto womanhood that projected shame.
I find you strange, a strange creature of expectation,
You see my neutrality, my level headed tone as aggression,
My discernment as threat, my judgment as rudeness,
Shaken to the bone like a rag doll in the wind you reel from my lack of engagement.
This is my middle ground, my threshold,
I stand here with trident, with scythe, with tigress, with wisdom of Old,
Indeed yes, the warm fire turns ice cold,
When the predator seeks to claim what is not his own.
Believe me son for when I rage,
And my anger boils and foams and curdles and rises,
For now, Just Go.
If you cross that line of mine,
Seeking what is not yours to find,
Out Come the Ice-Cold, Red-Hot Goddess-Whore-Witch-Shrews of Old,
Run, son, run… lest I begin to Dance.
For you shall see the one you seek,
The one you want, and yet Dread to Meet.
The She who Rises,
The She who Chooses.
The I AM hidden beneath
(What’s that? I thought you wanted me to smile?
What’s that? Not the one with the fangs?