Treadmills with teeth

I saw the best of my generation become Prime Minister,
as she passed by we pinned our expectations upon her coat,
never dreaming for a moment that each imperceptible wish
would grow heavy hanging around her throat.

I remember the jolt when a good friend confessed
resenting the PM because she made it all look easy,
as if she alone raised the expectation of women,
casting wild seeds that grew fast and bitterly. 

Although her hair was always perfect, 
I noted the muted colours she often wore,
the browns and burgundys a lesson that it still
pays to blend in, no matter what you stand for. 

I struggle with knowing that some of my
family and friends would happily see her dead,
for she morphed from a woman into a symbol
you don't have to be polite to either, they said. 

This world burns through people like fuel
for our treadmills with rapacious teeth,
#girlpower is shouted in slogans but
there’s a very different reality seething underneath. 

The best of my generation stood down as Prime Minister,
and right at the end of her phenomenal run,
a friend told us his granddaughter wants her hair
cut like a boy, because boys have more fun.

There’s no question that the child is right -
can you catch that eerie sound?
It is the hopes and dreams of women 
sinking softly into the foetid ground.