Young women imagine

if they keep certainty

From their voices,

You will listen.

Even “The sun rises in the east,”

or

“Antarctica is cold”

Must end on a slight, singing rise,

So it sounds like a question

Or a plea.

We old women know

It doesn’t matter.

We school out that song,

Don’t give a damn

If you call us shrews

Or Karens,

Or b*tches,

Those names

For women

who are sure

Instead of demure.