I inherited my fathers voice
That raises over small talk, conquers barriers,
Has loud ideas that shake the ground.
Mine begin to blow trees, stir rocks.
Nice boys don’t like wind tussled hair and
Nice girls don’t like breezes under their skirts
They tell me to speak softly.
My father and I debate over science and math
In the kitchen. My mother rolls her eyes
Yet, I am not quiet.
My sentences carry the same weight as his and
We stress the same syllables.
So please, please stop telling me to speak softly.