The following poem came about from an intense few days of frustration and self-doubt . . . go figure. I was trying to write an article for Feminist Lab and kept hearing this voice in my head criticizing my right to “speak for women” (which is not at all how I see my work, or how I approach my writing, but the doubt must exist somewhere). In the midst of a funk based on my conflicting understandings of the shifting identities of womanhood, swirled up with some serious love for Nalo Hopkinson (she’s my current author-crush. Read her.), I tossed the article idea for the following.  As a bit of pre-emptive defense: I don’t hate my vagina; I just sometimes wish that people wouldn’t care more about it than I do. Enjoy.

Oh my Vah-Jay-jay . . . (Some woman already wrote you a play

and you had more to say

than I do): My meager brain cannot fathom the ways

you matter

or don’t.

The whole world has told me to guard you,

to know ignore     adore      you,

To dress you up and shave you down,

to submit

or not.

In awe , like you were some fanged, caped, freak

lurking in the shadows, the weak

quote text and craft law as if I won’t speak

for myself,

or can’t.

Do I even exist?  . . .  In precarious positions, caught between

something and nothing, with a lack that weighs 

on me, that defines and defies,

is defiled

and defiles?

More often than not, you’re the center

of joy and pleasure and love and concern . . .

though from time to time you ache and bleed and burn . . .

And I think I must feel

a little left out.