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I need the grandmothers to help me
re-member my rage.
Cross stitch. Double knot. I sew it back on. The raggedy parts I let fly loose
when I thought it was OK to not be “so angry.”
“Boys will be boys.”
And so then, girls will be angry.
And we will re-member—our rage.
I need the great aunts, and all the old women with the signs that read,
“We are still protesting this shit.”
I need them, this herstory to help me
re-member my rage, feel it strong and tight. Cross stitch. Double knot. Those women re-member
me. I am that woman. She is me.
Our rage is a song.
After all this time, we are still singing it. Our rage
is a river and we swim in it, even if it’s upstream. There is a fierce mermaid goddess,
Yemaya. She protects us. She knows
our rage is our best defense.
Our rage is a
swarm of bees. Not yet extinct. Our rage
is holy. Terror. Continue reading “Poem: #MeToo, We Re-Member by Marie Cartier”

In 1929, my grandmother wrote the word “HOME” in resounding letters across the bottom of a photo of a herself and my grandfather, smiling lovingly and confidently, with my infant mother propped in between them on a rattan chair.

According to poet Muriel Rukeyser, “the world would split open.”
From the archives – 9/23/11
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This semester I am teaching the course EcoJustice and chose Sallie McFague’s
As I type this post, I have another browser window open to track the path of Hurricane Florence due to make landfall in my area sometime later this week. Though I now live a few hours inland, I grew up in a coastal town, so I know how unpredictable storms like these can be. It’s entirely possible that we will get a bit of rain and wind and nothing else–and it’s just as possible that we’ll be spending quite some time without power. I pray that the latter is the absolute worst of what we all endure here.