I wish I didn’t know the pigeon’s story. 
A hollow sadness rings across my heart
thinking about how they must’ve felt,
pushed from their hutches,
cast out on the streets. 

Men’s hands fed and petted them
from hatchling to champion
until they no longer knew 
they were supposed to roost in trees.

It’s the ultimate dick move
to shape a species to your will—
bend it until it breaks—
and blame them for the mess
you left behind. 

But pigeons aren’t the only ones
who’ve met this fate. 
From before recorded time began,
men have bent the will of women, 
taking the quiver from their hands,
saying, wouldn’t you be safer by the fire?

Did our foremothers think
their lives would be easier
under male protection?
Only for their granddaughters to wake 
and find they have no choice but to do it all
without a word of thanks. 

And now we’re told that this
is what we asked for
when we sought out equal footing. 
Wouldn’t it be better if 
you just stay in the kitchen?

Ask the pigeons if they think
that would be a safe retreat.