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

or away.

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.