On International Women’s Day
When you are born with a vagina
—or when you decide to have one later on—
the road ahead is one of revolution
not once at the start, not eventually, at the end,
but everyday, all day.
You quickly learn to choose certain
clothes over others, words over others,
games over others, friends, courses of study, diets, preferences of sorts,
but what happens, when you, in this,
land down under, every single time?
If you only ever know what to avoid,
and elegantly so, how can you stop running in circles
You learn that anger comes from a place
where open house is assumed
and invasions a rite of passage,
so where you look even less as a result
than you already do.
Inevitably though, the praised day comes,
when you meet the woman archetype who,
in spite of all sweet allure and bitter suppression of patriarchy,
has survived with the strongest
skeleton ready to be fleshed and clothed
by you. Only.
All of the sudden, conventions and expectations fall
off your shoulders, where they never paid rent
in the first place, go out the windows,
—swarmingly, no wonder—
and aren’t to be seen again or
to be missed.
And then it’s just you.
Perhaps a friend or two.
The spirits of your Mama, Grandma, Sisters, Aunts.
But really, now it’s just you, in the weathers, in the space
where you are the artist
to make woman a becoming, and yours.
I’ll meet you there.