when are our bodies our own
When are our bodies our own?
Not as children, in the last
gracious throes of androgyny —
what could a child own anyway?
Not as girls, finally girls, finally
seen and short sleeves and long walks,
the tepid relief of being perceived.
Not as teens, of course, tip-toed
around a dimly lit mattress,
damned whether you do or don’t.\
Not as women, obviously, just a word
you’ve forgotten on the tip of your tongue,
situated between girl and person,
either neither or both, if you’re lucky —
what could a woman own anyway?
Where we can’t find sovereignty,
we find a mirror and tell it:
this too shall pass,
and this too shall pass,
and this too shall pass,
and this agony, too,
shall be replaced by a new
type of agony,
and, in between, this too
shall pass through and down
until our daughters ask:
when are our bodies our own?
Not when we writhe from the womb
or when our own wombs wrinkle.
These bodies find themselves masochists,
these women a sinister prayer,
these girls, finally girls, finally
find themselves in the mirror:
this rage, they think, shall pass.