Women
are not mysterious.

We are not shrouded
in cloaks made from the night sky.

We are not anomalies
or irregularities in the data.

Our nature has been hidden
from men, by men.

We have not been studied;
Not extensively, thoroughly, over centuries.

Not the way men have been, either.
There was no equal footing in
analyses.

Women were test subjects, when men were patients.
When we were "relevant" at all.

This pattern literally kills us quicker.
In medicine, and love.
In the office and the bedroom.
In the workshop and the nursery.

In the kitchen.

In the kitchen.

Some food for your soul:

Everyone is magical.
You don't need a pointy hat and a ******.

Everyone is intellectual.
You don't need spectacles, white skin, or a *****.

Everyone is environmental.
Just go outside.

You just need to be you.

Subscribing to the binary
and rejecting it completely:
One ties your hands,
the other your feet.

Be all the parts of you. Then you can feel
Whole.

Sometimes
we must open
words like
unexpected
            gifts,
unwrapping
them with
reverence
           and honor
gently removing
their layers
ever so gingerly,
       ******* their
                   meanings
with utmost care
so as not to disturb
them as they sleep
tiptoeing through
the house barefoot
in a gentle,
        sacred dance
letting each
tiny wisp
of meaning
        caress our cells
in white,
feathery
seedlings that
shimmy in the wind
      Other times
we must let
each letter
     kiss the air
around us
      in a frantic whizzing
and imprint itself
upon our hearts
as they beat
   Personally,
     I prefer
to just sit still
upon the sand,
right where tide
licks my feet
in between that
mystical space where
           ebb meets flow
in perfect, utter silence
Then, in meditation
            stance, fingers  
                    curved up,        
I am
           ready for that
liquid receiving
letting the waves
of verse and rhyme
wash right over me
my very molecules
taking them in,
salty sweet
        in most
              delicious
                           fusion
as abundance
and the convulsion
of ecstasy
whisper
        my name