Poem: 1960s

I have to admit, I struggled a while with this poem. Writers sometimes talk about not forcing a story or poem to go somewhere it doesn't want to go, and this poem really lead its own way (appropriate, given the subject matter). I'm still having trouble with the rhythm and ending but I'll have to sleep on it; that's what revision is for.
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1960s

Like all women of my generation
I never had a say, never had a voice
but now revived, I look about and cry--
take arms, take pitchfork, burst
from tower and castle and countryside
and hear us--
we will not be defined by birthmark
or congenital curse, will not be defined
by a home of chimney dust or orphanage.
This is not our fate, to wander forest roads
or grow hair in vain or await
handsome cobblers a-knocking.
No--this new century it is time
for those spindle-enchanted women
to cast off that cloak of anesthesia
and slap that costumed buffoon
because we pick our own apples
we defy mirror-talk
we scorn dwarf and prince alike.