Women, boundaries, and beyond all that |
No map lines exist on earth’s surface. Under theatrical skies, soil, rocks, oceans co-mingle and algae and fungi stretch together from pole to pole; however, a slanted fence stands between the town of Douglas stripped with malls and Agua Prieta with dust-coated shacks, hiding soundtracks of world beat, air-thinned desires, and misplaced mothers. Aromas, Chanel No. 5, Ambush, Miss Arpel, Lilac, wildflowers, frying onions, ammonia, soapsuds, detergent, magnolia, flaunt their riveting flair, drifting through borders, building bridges, and crossing over barricades where barbed wires stand at rapt attention to patriarchal myths still fearful of Virginia Woolf. When divisions and egos take over vulnerable lives to lynch spirits, to limit labor, or to tuck curfews inside throats, determined soprano voices leak out of chadors, prison bars, and savage lashings, to object to stonings, executions, dollhouse promises, or lines in the sand tightly drawn to cover heads. Even if minds are cudgeled and, like layers of saplings, graves lie next to each other, in fashion, wearing shadows of pens gone underground, women, braced with power and grace, once more, line burkas with perfume to throw them to the wind, and, banging pots and pans, chant in solidarity, believing, one day soon, they can clean the world from top to bottom and erase boundaries, so duet, choir, and symphony can never turn solo again. |