He calls me “Woman”- an Ode to Charlie Kirk

He calls me “woman”

but cares not what it means,

seeking to entrap someone

in XX or XY genes.

Forgetting that Jesus began as a she,

but then again, so did he,

at least according to biology.

But that doesn’t matter

in religious histories,

those evangelical fantasies

dripping with fallacies.

Social constructs? “Matter not!”

His version of Woman is taut.

Meekness sewn into corset strings,

silence a hymn

from which her life springs.

Shackles forged in scriptured alliance,

all to secure their holy compliance.

Science and scripture

he waves like a cross,

all while erasing the souls he’s lost.

“Stand down, woman! Show me your degree!”

Why are you so unfit to battle me?

Could it be my straw man fallacies,

or my cheap black-and-white fantasies?”

Drenched in privilege,

yet forever he whines.

Pity, he doesn’t taste

like Jesus’s wine.

Tell me this- just answer me plain:

Is she more than her gender, her title, her name?

Will she always plead for your sacred grace,

living unseen, without a true place-

save for the home and the children she bears,

lost in your dominion of chores and prayers?