There is too much truth
In dichotomies
Like ambiguous holes
Which need healing
Built from aging dolls
Better suited
Living lives less loved
Than their woes

At the hands of boys
Playing rough
Trading formulas learned
Counting losses,

Having questions asked
Though their answers
Becomes what fate
We despise –

This self-fulfilled hate
Towards relief
Only moms could show
Rocking cradles
Where math means warmth
Missing numbers
Yet proved through needs
Soon suppressed

If growing up fast
Watching sunlight
Bring with each gray dawn
Morning ashes
Now invented by men
Feeling angry
When nothing seems right
But success

So women like words
Stay ignored,

Still equations solved
Imply nothing,

After years spent lost
Seeking fusion
Behind a white picket fence
Fear imposed.

Our dream house
Beckons such wars –

Toys broken apart
Over difference,

Never nurturing worlds
Always turning,

Neglecting how flesh
Is enough.

• J. Pigno