Being a woman
is thrust upon you.
You walk under stars and suddenly
casually,
make a fist in your pocket and
hold your key—like
a weapon.
It is keen awareness
of fabric length,
and clenched assessment
of skin, padlocks, mirrors, stopping cars,
of home routes, and drink offers.
Being a woman is weighing
the chances of a stranger
becoming a husband
—or a murderer.
Or both.
Is womanhood to forgive
yourself, for the sins of others?
Maybe so.
But lately, it is also:
golden eyeshadow,
lungful of laughter
over a plate of dinner
with my sister.
