The Foundation Leaned

What makes a woman?

Welcome, and a warm first hello to the newcomers!

I’m so happy you’re here.

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The story of this poem: Most of the caring, calm people I encountered in my early years were men. The women of my childhood were dysregulated and frightening. This has led to some complicated feelings about my own gender identity: do I really chafe against she/her pronouns, or do I just hate the thought of becoming my mother and her friends? Hard to say.

AM I EVEN A WOMAN?

Am I even a woman?
I read the stories online:
Women speak about catcalls,
And other ladies chime,
“Solidarity with your tale, girlie,
Here’s mine.”
The camera pans to me:
I’m silent.

Am I even a woman?
I fear no tall man on the street,
There's no unconquerable predator there for me to see.
My keys live in my backpack,
Not as claws between knuckles.
I do not bare my teeth.
When I stride past a masculine body at night,
My nervous system does not become lightning,
But I hear from women
Who swear up and down that we all feel the same fright.

Am I even a woman?
It has been many years since the foundation leaned,
But I remember the feeling of hiding away
Beneath a face that I copied from magazines.
I did it to assure the other girls that I was ordinary.
(The best way to avoid the siege of the flock of glaring.)
One day, I looked down at myself in all my bizarre glory,
Realized I had flown higher than any of them,
That I could run where they only walked, and barely.

Am I even a woman?
I leave all the feminine laws in disorder.
I pick and choose.
I evade the enforcers.
I’m supposed to be soft and fearful,
But all this muscle can’t be denied.
(Couldn’t hide this pussy flex if I tried.)

Am I even a woman?
Or am I the unfathomable blue breeze,
Hosting cocktail hour with the other creatures
Who could not be held by gravity?
The journey to elbow room is lonely, some folks know it's true,
But, the view:
Oh, the view.