If Michelangelo witnessed femme forms
Our voices could sound centuries ago
Prophets with painted faces profess
Sweet nothings to coax the zealous inside
Political polish, heiress of heavens
Dominion despite perceptions of clothes
Dickinson mustn’t lament trivialities
Rather bear the future within her hips
Pronouns gain capital, adjectives shift
She that speaks succumbs to shrillness
Birth of nature, love, without exposure
The form which satiates, a mere scandal
Malleable with elixirs and silicon, riches
Pulled not from him or her own
The condition of man, never to heal
Flowering minds, kintsugi suppressed
Michelangelo, not blessed with her visage
So this sickness, a bitch, dainty, drab
A vixen, clawing vices, his faintness
All too reliant upon her male host
Emily Tschetter is a student at Billings Senior High in Montana, an activist, and a cellist. She writes in her spare time and is an aspiring journalist. She is fascinated with the state of the world, and implores everyone to register to vote.
