My short skirt is not an invitation a provocation an indication that I want it or give it or that I hook
My short skirt is not begging for it it does not want you to rip it off me or pull it down.
My short skirt is not a legal reason for raping me although it has been before it will not hold up in the new court.
My short skirt, believe it or not has nothing to do with you.
My short skirt is about discovering the power of my lower calves about cool autumn air traveling up my inner thighs about allowing everything I see or pass or feel to live inside.
My short skirt is not proof that I am stupid or undecided or a malleable little girl.
My short skirt is my defiance I will not let you make me afraid My short skirt is not showing off this is who I am before you made me cover it or tone it down. Get used to it.
My short skirt is happiness I can feel myself on the ground. I am here. I am hot.
My short skirt is a liberation flag in the women’s army I declare these streets, any streets my vagina’s country.
My short skirt is turquoise water with swimming colored fish a summery festival in the starry dark a bird calling a train arriving in a foreign town my short skirt is a wild spin a full breath a tango dip my short skirt is initiation appreciation excitation.
But mainly my short skirt and everything under it is Mine. Mine. Mine.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."