If I was that woman
If I was that woman. If I was that woman
in the big house with the tall windows
like eyes staring across open farmland
where the late afternoon sunset glazes
the manicure of her lashes. If I was that
woman whose Italian soft-topped car
is poised in the drive dreaming of Alpine roads
with the crusted crests of mountains
luring her away to the Rivieras.
If I was that woman whose pampered
children never go hungry for a day
and always have the right shoes
the right phone the right head-held
-high attitude that executes the smoothest
sail across the sea of ballet schools and
auditions that allow them the propensity
to become physicians or photographers
with or without portfolio. If I was that
woman who uses her lip-sticked face
to grace the digital screens of Instagram
for a temporary career in Beauty. If I
was that woman whose husband was
Something in Hedgefunds or Investor
in the decimation of Rainforests and
Indigenous peoples for whom
the whole-scale production of palm oil
was Big Business
is that woman similar to the Mistresses
who sat on verandas overlooking plant
ations overseeing other women who had
the misfortune to be the colour of the
earth that fed them?
If I was that woman who silently accepted
the machinations and clandestine alley
catting of husbands in return for
entrance to a gated world of open doors
and holidays in the Babylon of Dubai
would my acceptance alleviate any
concerns for the silenced women who
have no say no agency apart from
the servicing of men? Would my conscience
be calmed over the death of coral reefs
or rainbow fish gagging in a sea of plastic
by contributing monthly debits to Water Aid
or the adoption of orangutans or large
-eyed Asian orphans? If I was that woman
dressed in a business suit looking down
on her sisters as she climbed up the path
to success. If I was that woman whose
head was knocked in hidden rooms
against the wall for daring to have an opinion.
If I was that woman who could not be a poet
because her words belonged in her mouth
and did not merit their passage
through lips that were reddened vulvas
only meant for the pleasuring of men.
If I was that woman instead of the woman
who sits weaving in the valleys of
Macedonia where the sun slowly burns
the mountain. If I was that woman who
even now is crossing the Mediterranean,
her arms in the cradle of God. Or the woman
who stands dreaming at the window
wondering what woman am I?
Maggie Harris is a Guyanese writer and artist living in Kent. Awards include The Guyana Prize, The Commonwealth Short Story Prize and The Wales Poetry Award. She has published 9 books of poetry and prose. Her most recent are On Watching a Lemon Sail the Sea, (Poetry) and Writing on Water, (short stories) www.maggieharris.co.uk