I am not listening to your message.
I am a woman and don’t need to be told what that means.
My uterus is not a test tube,
And I do not bleed medicine-blue, clear liquid,
In clean little amounts that your utlra-absorbent “Napkins” can soak up…
All while some anorexic, barely post-pubescent model—
With her bone-thin arms and sunken-in cheeks—
Giggles and hush-hushes about “embarrassing leaks”.
Heavy, flesh-filled earth-tones flow from me,
And no matter how often you tell me it’s dirty,
I won’t regret or lament my womanly art,
This sisterhood of life of which I’m a part.
It may ache in my gut or stain my clothes,
But this isn’t just some inconvenience like a bloody nose.
We’re talking about the awesome power of Earth.
And I’m an integral cog in the wheel of Life and Birth.
Some day when Father Time has me in his claws,
And I enter that phase doctors call menopause,
Then the cramps, pimples, and stains won’t seem so bad,
And I may become wistful, or—dare I say—sad,
When some teeny-bopper actress comes on the TV,
And starts preaching about the trials of womanhood to me.
So you can take your white sofas and white, wool sweaters
And curl up with your cup of soup in front of a huge bay window overlooking the sea,
But you should know that your message is lost on me.
I am not listening to you message.
I am a woman…a direct descendant of Mother Earth.