The smell of death from between your legs,
A stain on an innocent reputation,
And far more innocent furniture.
Internal violence of a body inverted,
Is that what it means to be a woman?
Taken apart,
Torn together,
Fundamental evil resides in your stomach.
Is that what it means to be a woman?
Keen awareness,
Even keener stupidity,
A corpse flower blooms within you.
Is that what it means to be a woman?
Life in shadow,
But a sun as a vessel for your sound.
A smoky haze that covers phantom limbs.
Is that what it means to be a woman?
Born a sin, genesis,
Genes of a sis.
A burden from a bloodline
That doesn’t bleed for you.
Is that what it means to be a woman?
A mannequin with no choice,
No mouth, no voice.
Mouthing Sojourner’s Truth to ears
That listen but don’t hear.
Is that what it means to be a woman?
No matter the earth;
Barren farmland
Or a field made fertile by corpses—
Man plunders,
Sucks dry,
Abuses.
Is that what it means to be a woman?
Or must a woman
Carve into themselves,
And feel the sinews snap under
Their owned artificial hair?
Must I taste my own stomach bile
To know I am alive?
To know that I persist,
Beyond the hobble of an old man.
If I can tell myself,
Without your help,
That I am allowed to be,
Will I then be a woman?
