Down and not out are our mothers
And daughters ,who would stomp
On daily beating seedbags of men
When they reached the last drop.
The daily beatings did not sound
Like wedding music, only drums
Announcing predators in jungle.
Their seedbags had to be crushed
To an aphrodisiacal sand powder
In deserts of our common infinity.
(taking off on Meena Kandasamy’s remarkable poem “Their Daughters” :I have taken a liking for her evocative usage seedbag)