Women warriors laboring over hot ovens
Boiling their bras in the pots.
They are the witches of their own coven,
Dancing to the flute caressing the country,
Feeling the heat of their lives,
Shrouded by stereotypes ages old,
Trying to change the world permanently,
Flying over everyone on their brooms
That they made themselves,
Cooking up something else in their stew
They have been simmering slowly for years.
This cauldron has reached the boiling point.