The Feminine Mystique

They say that you can never go home again,

and that must be the case.

I walked across Pangaea so long ago;

I forgot it ever existed.

I shook hands with Anansi on one shore,

and scratched the belly of the coyote on another.

I scrubbed my skin free of primordial dust,

no longer adorned in ancient markings.

I bathed in translucent spring waters, filed down my calluses,

soaked in milk and honey, and anointed myself in the finest oils.

I clothed myself in civilized manners,

changed the shape of my words.

I drank ambrosia, mindlessly dancing to the sirens’ song,

wove delights and sang love ballads.

I locked my tongue behind delicate bone china,

charmed the world with my shy smile.

I read all the sanctioned books,

made my home in fairytale castles, ruled by kings and guarded by dragons.

I embraced my gilded cage and clipped my wings,

Promised a happily ever after.

I napped in the room without a view

built by a carpenter.

I accidentally fell down the rabbit hole once

and was lulled to sleep in a poppy field,

but I never again wandered out at night

or strayed too far from the worn path.

I transformed myself to other;

no longer recognizable,

no longer protected by tribal law,

unable to hear the primal call to return home,

no longer able to stand in the light of the sun,

without bursting into flames.