(after the painting by Bruegel the Elder)
 
One woman makes a din,
hammering her stewpot into a sword,
clashing into armor that clashes
with her apron and skirt,
and when told to be quiet,
nevertheless she persists.

Two women make a lot of trouble,
gossiping in corners about
hexes of protection, spells
to summon higher pay, about
secrets they were told
no one would ever believe—
secrets, it turns out, too many
of them share.

Three women make an annual market,
gathering to sell
safety, solidarity, sympathy, strength,
commodities closed out
of the official economy—
and when they are told
they have enough, their hands are full,
they point at the gold-
stuffed storehouses of men and ask,
how much can your hands hold
and yet still grab our assets?

Four women make a quarrel,
a squabble, a spat,
any term trimming them down
to triviality—inevitable debates
over strategy and blame,
personalities prickling
as people perpetually do,
fault lines forming into factions,
impatience taking a match to the market
and threatening to burn it all down
for the flaw of imperfection,
while behind the smoke screen,
the enemy fans the flame.

Five women make an army,
marching arm in arm,
fractious, ferocious,
raiding at the very gates of Hell
to free those souls unjustly chained
and lock up the ones whose sins
have gone too long excused,
to bedevil the comfortable
and comfort the bedeviled,
to resolve an unholy din
into holy chorus, many voices
raised like the dead
from the silence
of oppression’s grave.

And against six the Devil himself has no weapon.
 
 

[Editor’s Note: You can click here to read Marie Brennan’s notes on the poem, a part of our criticism special.]