Culture & Society

A  Woman's Body Writing Itself

I am a pitch-dark womb. I shelter God's fetus...standing on my toes. I am a whore: a flung open door through which men come and go pretending innocence.

I was not created for pleasure...

1.    I am a whole poem
       hidden squeezed
       in between my thighs.
       written in the language
       of Braille.
       At night  you come
       tiptoeing to read me
       with the sharp gaze
       of your hands.

        Fingers, too, have eyes
        that blaze in the dark.
        I am not a moon

        but have scars.

2.     Do I look
        like a luscious pair of fruits
        dangling awkwardly

        in the green garden
        of my flesh men love
        to eat with their eyes ?

3.     I have been declared
        'a disturbed area',
        a territory under 'seize'.

         But my borders are
         porous, and
         I am penetrable.

         I, often, get lost
         in the wilderness
         of my own body.

4.      I am a pitch dark womb.
         I shelter God's fetus
         standing on my toes.

         On the sharp edge
         of  love I throb
         like a parrot's tongue.

         I am a whore:
         a flung open door
         through which men come and go

         pretending innocence.

5.      Actually, I am just
         a swampy little hole -

         all the metaphors
         are merely
         'a damage control'.