Graffiti in the Ladies Poem by Anne Lee Tzu Pheng

In the privacy
of this public lavatory
someone has purged
herself of her oppressors
and stereotypical docility:

from the Emperor of Japan
to Indira Gandhi,
and underlings between;
PMs, MPs, the lot —
all called judgement
in torturous outpouring:
sentenced for crimes,
nepotic dynasties, taxes,
arrogance, brutalities,
even sexual excesses,
as crudely enumerated
as mind-boggling.

Your hear a voice
too freedom-bound to shut up
in its executions.
The warped calligraphy
is like a dance of death;
she prefers to strip herself
for solitary audiences
whose response she may anticipate,
the place's ambience being
safe, accommodating frame.

You wonder if it's shock or shame
that you feel. Or maybe both.

It's easy to say
someone hysterical did this.

Does violence have a gender?
Has woman been clapped so much in her place
she has no room to face her demons
but the public lavatory?
Surely this vandalising speaks much more
than the writing on the wall?