by Motavenda Melchizedek


Dedication: I dedicate this piece to all the men who were boys that lived at the mercy of an unhealed woman/mother. I remember the desperation this young man felt at the sight of his own impotence forced upon him by a mother unwilling to allow him to grow into a man. He was vital and viral and beautiful and alive but that was not to be. He was forbidden, through a twisted sense of obligation, to become free.



She came to the village

in search of the soul

of her lost son

He was lost

to only one

and that was she

A mother possessed

of the most hideous of desires

to conquer the heart

of her child

to fulfill the hopeless lover

buried deep inside her

He ran with great speed

in his attempt to be free

from her dirty grip

which held him tight

tearing his flesh


Always he laughed

and pretended

without disguise

that he was free

When he wasn’t

And this left her

with great hope

that in the end

she would devour

his beating heart

with her rotting teeth

and foulest breath

He loved her

he told me

and in the fore

of his obligations

lay this apparent allegiance

to his greatest enemy

the mother

The one

to set the stage

for all experience

And all experience

had led him here

to the palm of her pudgy hand

lusting so vulgarly

for the soul and cock

of her own son

the favorite one

Her eyes were among the ugliest I have ever seen

“Look at me”, she demanded

“Look into my eyes”

She said to the others aloud,

“I want her to look in my eyes,

I think she is good

and I like her.”

And she made me look

for as long as I could stand

into the muddy filters of her hateful core

to prove the test was mine

And her goodness never in question

And how sickened am I

to know

a child once lay in her arms

with no choice

but to stay

and be what she needed

when it left him lost

and running forever

into eternity

with a mouthful of lies

and nowhere to speak

and her thrusting tongue

searching with relentless

and vulgar passion

down the back of his gagging


His eyes had darkened in the days of her presence

as he spoke to me in whispers

of the planned escape

And in my heart and in my mind

I wished for him a safe journey

for the chance to make it

through the narrow narrow door

to asylum from the grip of his own mother

gone mad

in search of the soul

of her lost child

Postscript: In the years since I wrote this piece, decades now, I have met many many men who were born into the bondage of the legacy of the injured, unhealed woman. Though there is no doubt fathers can wound daughters in horrific ways, mothers can injure sons on levels incomprehensible and in ways so vicious they are not even spoken of in our culture. These wounds go deep. Too deep for men to travel to in any natural way to even begin to understand what has taken place. To even know what has happened to them. I have seen their predicaments, I have love these men, and I have also experienced their rage and terror at the sight of feminine energy. In their unhealed state, it is as though the female of any strength must be destroyed, undermined and destabilized. These men feel compelled to annihilate women. I can only wonder if they can not tell the difference between beautiful power and the dark face of the destroyer female. It is all so heartbreaking.