Min(e)(d)

(Photo by Nadia Rej)

As a poet, I sometimes am too ambiguous. It is hard to hold a thought in "solution"--not crytallized into lock-down yet present enough to be apprehended. Indeed, today's thought is too simplified by the image. And yet. If my womb cannot be "mine"--and yes, it is and isn't in a Buddhist sense--then what hope have we of offering any freedoms to the rest of our bodie? The fear of the fascist mommy has so overwhelmed some aspect of our community politic that we fiddle with pizza while the artic burns. How much of Education is a thinly veiled attempt to wrest one final managerial muscle from the mommy? Pestalozzi idealized the mother (and needed her badly to manage his farm) and Froebel recruited her to tend his gardens.  

It is the invisible hand outside of the picture frame that is the fascist. The one that holds the knife, the pill, the tract, the photo of the embryo, the flimsily drafted law, that points the finger but refuses to lift it. Fascism begins in how we frame the womb, how we think it.