they are oblivious with their cheerful
yellow blooms. They sway & nod
& scatter their seeds with the complacency
of the uninformed, of petals wide open,
of roots shallowly anchored in the soil.

They don’t seem to know
their fragility lies just beneath
that façade of resilience.

How a (careless) foot might not see
them flourishing in the tall summer grasses.
How the weight of an indifferent step
causes their delicate structure to collapse into itself.
How a (ruthless) hand might pluck them
for the fleeting pleasure of watching them wither.
The quiet rustle that precedes
their continued subjugation.
How their stems are as fragile as spun silk.
How they are delicate containers
at the whim & mercy of the slightest breeze.
Their beauty so fleeting & perfect
it deserves a fierce storm to sweep them into the air.

I see them, avoiding the conversations, the confrontations,
pretending the chaos will dissipate on its own.
Their refusal to engage, to even vote, is a weight
that drags us all down. Their indifference,
their indignity, their lack of curiosity & knowledge,
continuously add to the tightening chains.

They defer to their husbands, to their churches,
instead of stoking the fire of rage within them
to raze these structures to the ground.

Their inaction is not harmless.
It feeds the very power they lack,
the suffering we all endure.

Each quiet acquiescence,
each bowed head,
is a step backward for all women.

I want to shake them,
to scream until they see—
their complacency is a luxury we cannot afford.
We need their voices, their anger, their strength.
We need them to rise with us,
to gather the same rage within them
that burns within us all.

~

Bio: Caiti Quatmann (she/her) is a disabled poet and writer. She is the author of the poetry chapbook Yoke (MyrtleHaus) and Editor-in-Chief for HNDL Mag. She studied and taught writing at the University of Missouri St. Louis. Her work has been published by Samfiftyfive, Thread LitMag and others. Find her on Instagram and Threads @CaitiTalks.