Becoming Woman

as I kiss my son, and he blush
and we laugh joyfully,
I think of my own eighth year
when nobody kissed me
as a kid, yet
held me close,
drew me in to in-between spaces
and loved me
as a woman
The man I married asks me,
“Do you know?
How ugly you look when you hiss at your son?”
and he reminds,
“He is a man and you a woman,
so better arrest your anger.”

I am at once, jealous
of my son’s manhood at seven
and wonder, if
a woman in labor
is equally ugly
with her facial muscles rigid
choked throat and
shivering patience.


That day, after we made love
I opened my body to the winds

Sweat, saliva and semen
were tattooed over my skin,
taking forms of animal shaped constellations
and ushering in, the fate of the Medusa

I roam over the skies, and
roll around my bedroom floor
for an eternity.


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