In a world so full of muddled dichotomies and clumsy classifications,
Of spectrums and ranges and imprecise definitions,
Of moving targets and sliding scales,

What is a woman?

When your definition’s solid, sorted, and sold
Am I an archetype or anomaly in the sordid taxonomy?

Here are my chromosomes:
Two Xs to mark the swirling twirls of DNA
Properly paired to provide a guide for my curves.

Here is my body:
Ripe and rounded and ready for perusal
By those who find art in a classical form.
******* that are not perfect,
*** that waggles as I walk,
A waist that looks even better when I’m angry
(Hands on hips and arms akimbo).

Here is my ***:
Excited by the touches that evolution would predict.
I respond when kissed by stubbled lips,
When stroked by calloused hands,
When rocked beneath a man that biology would call
“The fittest.”
Our coupling is a pledge to survive.

Here is my womb:
A wonder of chemistry and medicine,
It has been occupied for defense against bearing fruit.
I have declared my selfishness to doctors,
To family,
To strangers.
I will not house another life
Because my own heart is sufficient.
I will not nurse another’s hunger
Because my appetites are wild.
I will not be a mother,
And you will not change my mind.

Here is my hysteria:
I cry sometimes when books are sad,
Or when commercials are touching,
Or when I’m angry,
Or hungry.
Or confused.
Or happy.
Or whatever.

Here is my meek and mild nature:
In the hand that covers an ornery smile.
In the hesitation before I swear.
In the blush of a lover surprised.
In the warmth that you must lose, not earn.

Whether I am a winning or a wanting woman
I am finished with apologies.
When all is counted/sorted/labeled

My tastes and brightest talents are as tame as I can bear.