Always I read about the struggle of women against submission, I think of four people: my mother, Virginia Woolf, Doris Lessing, and Marie Shelley (I do think of many others as well, like my sisters, Tony Morrison or Phillis Wheatley, but that is just too long a story).
The first one, my mom, taught me not to think of myself as inferior (nor superior) to any man (or person in general); the second one, Woolf, opened a new world of ideas about women’s being deprived for so long of a proper education, money and a room (...of One’s Own), and she has also made me consider the pros and cons of actually developing an androgynous mind. The third one, Lessing made clear for me that space had to be physical and not just a psychic instance—we women need real space to exist—. The fourth and last one, young writer Marie Shelley, specifically through her Frankenstein, has taught me a most valuable lesson: if you get to have your book published, please don’t let your husband write the prologue. A woman should not need a man to represent her. If you ask me, Marie Shelley would’ve been better off without such undeserving presentation.
We women have the capacity to love deeply and altruistically. We are mothers, even those who are childless. However, we are also the dark womb where heroes come to die. The world begins and ends in its Mother. We are the most powerful archetype; C’mon! If that doesn’t scare men, what does! This is why this Man’s World has lacerated our genitals, made us wear neck rings, use high heels and corsets, develop bound feet and a submissive attitude. We must be indeed terrible, my dear friend, @nancybriti.

These poems you comment on so aptly remind of Anne Bradstreet's "To My Dear and Loving Husband," which I never got to love but which I will reread with different eyes after reading your great post, my brilliant friend. So thank you for that ☻♥