To Be a Woman With Rights
how odd, to be a woman and a girl
to wear the dresses but concern about cleavage
more than meets the eye: because.
and so we waddle for the men –
twisting straps, my petticoat drawbridge
i am over-aware of myself: know the pulse and
when to tug draperies from ‘part thighs
they only see what i am okay with,
which does not include exhaling.
i am like a drum, drumbeat
i punch my body until the purple softens
and it sounds beautiful, but incomprehensible:
me, this woman-girl and child cheeks
placed upon petals that flap
with attention, not the old storm breezes –
every april shower molded me into a flower
i rise above each season, gay spectacle
the men that believe hurricanes so enigmatic
must lust me for such a reason –
i have been through many in girlhood
that i bleed one as a woman.
because of word infidelities, the muse
april said that i am only as big as my body
and i grew, grew, grew
until my stem became caught
to where it grew no longer, a woman-child
who took the wind like salad dressing.
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