Held hostage in our husband’s homes. Only to be granted the freedom that the patriarchy can control.

Not yet allowed to open an account of our own.

It’s our mid-century dream to raise daughters— that can be shown.

One day, we will have a choice over our body’s reproductive zones— but Uncle Sam has convinced himself to shame women like martyrs.

Until then, only to be seen wearing stockings and a garter— under our clothes.

Keeping the seams straight, careful not to harbor a run.

Replacing them again and again until our days are done. Walking down the street, harassed if the torn fiber shows.

Back to the landfill, where the stockings end up? No one really knows.