Thursday, October 15, 2015

To Be A Woman

to be a woman
is to tame the wildness that is lust
for whatever reason
it might sneak up
within her

give itself a man’s name
and a man’s form:
tall and dark and strong
full lipped, piercing eyes,

lust provokes a woman
like a hoodie on a Black kid
in the inner city provokes a cop
like a seed in a row
of a wide field is provoked by the rain
like a tiny clover leaf is provoked
to turn towards the sun

lust wants the woman
to taste it, feel its burn, hold it
around the shoulders, acquit it,
write it down as lovely, look the other way
when needed, ride it bare back
through lines and verses
repeatedly—rehearse it

lust wants the woman to pretend
this is the first time again, acquit again,
in again, back again, out again
forth again, chorus

a woman must bind lust
like the leg of an elephant roped
to a splintering post,
like a community to a document
promising justice, like the two dots
on a lady bug in a vast valley of wildflowers,
like a corset to her torso

a woman must categorize lust
into stanzas
hope for the stanzas to repair
her inside thoughts, private: meditations,
masturbations, concentrations, grand jury trials    
selective expressions;

she must squeeze lust tightly
careful not to let it drip
down the insides of her
blues or blind her from the goal:
to be loved, to be cherished, to have peace, to expect justice,
to stand in solidarity, to obtain equality, to expect accountability 

she must grab the beast by the horns
without holding her breath
or stuttering—too much
when he, Lust, looks at her before
he signs
his name
on her neck, on her breast
on her

art credit: