Periculoso Poem by Roger Gerald Hicks

Sometimes while sections of the choir sing alone
in uncertain harmony, retiring to the high-walled garden,
strolling among the roses and odor of fresh turned soil
we glance at clouds,
ponder how it was in a world not perpetually scheduled.

We are so propelled by memories of men
not with yearning nor fondness, but loathing and fierce animosity;
rue their power, now that it's too late;
contemplate the greed that corrupted their actions.

Men know Catherine guided her conquering armies with pelvis
and promises whispered in French.
also that the Maid bested besiegers catapulted by dreams-
her voices- until betrayed by both Kings.
Is that why they loath us so?But why vest on us this ignominy?
Imprisonment.

We were obedient.And behind our veils' conformed to the
unreasonable demands of our in-laws- abided every single law
for truly, the edicts are tattooed in Aramaic on our hearts.

We learn our songs are ephemeral as our own scent; the output
of our hands.Discover songs cannot slice through walls
nor un-shackle us from blinding faith;
faith of ancestors which can only be challenged by a Holy Emperor
too intent on his armies; our sons, brothers, ex-husbands.

Behind walls, we prisoners sing our parts, our only joy,
ensembled like angels
later kiting with sisters, vie for imaginary benefits.

O, yes, our murals earn us scant awards, sometimes release
from hard labor, some copper from related males.
Hands grow soft again, faces line.
Some bathe the feet of lepers, ladle soup into mendicant bowls.
All are weary of the sacred teaching: any path is better
than public stoning.

No more sisters, mothers, wives, queens.Awash in femininity
like a school of sardines, we bask only in the loneliness of our skins.
We hug ourselves to sleep bathed in tears
that dissolves our minds like soggy paper-everything awash save song.