I couldn't help but think of a poem I wrote when I first stopped going to church in early 2009. Originally posted here. At the time, I felt trapped by Mormon gender roles. This poem captures my earliest attempts to question the women-as-commodity mindset.
In the rancid sweet I smell it -
WASTE. And for what!
The evidence is there for all to see:
Shady grasses littered with pits half-naked,
half-clothed in fruit flesh
oozing and bleeding, smashed
like a hundred broken hearts.
I pay homage in my mind to the fruit.
Once it clung determinedly among the branches,
withstood each enticing, tugging tendril of wind,
persisted amidst the nibblings of lustful enemies.
Each fruit was once the jealous guardian of her own future,
willing with all might against premature plucking.
Time passed and the fruit became ripe,
some overly so.
Skins once bright and taut began to wrinkle and spot.
Stems pulled against branches with unnatural heaviness...
The fruit fell.
Some blame the harvesters that never came,
or came too late,
but as I mourn so much goodness wasted!
I begin to hate