Every woman has her Anne Finch;
trapped, relegated to submission,
torn in transient effervescence of
the slow and vagrant demise of self.
Try let her out, in bouts of creation
innovation or sublime imagination,
and they jeer, in pouts of confusion,
irritation or endeavor intimidation.
Shut her in and lock the door, she
escapes through sighs of darkness
coiled around chains of regret, make
do with toils ordinary, unremarkable.
A struggle with mine, savage heresy
raging in my gut, let out when broken
screams scatter for choice, choking
in conflicting paradigms of sanction.
Every woman is her Anne finch.
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