Womanhood
My throat is sore from talking totoo many hysterical women;
my mind spinning from their mania
leaving little rest for mine.
And I ache to sweat.
Dry from driving too many windy miles;
sitting so long my thighs
in atrophy.
Womanhood was a dream; I remember
nurturing these growing hips:
playing at house -
playing at sex.
I had no script for the wisdom
of washing dishes on Saturday morning;
rinsing sin -
out of my hair Sunday night.
I was not shown my pulse
I found it sitting quietly with my legs crossed
when I caught myself humming
to the throb of want.
Now I can't ignore its beating
it irritates me when I'm tired
whispering that it knows my needs
I know it is no liar.