It is strange to know that my grandmother
is still dead
even after all this time — just because
she died then. Like it is strange to know
that I will always
be woman
just because I am one.
It is not like I can imagine it any other way.
Yet sometimes it is hard to accept that this
is unending — this skin that is mined for meaning
until I am ready to shed it and hand it over
to the next man who looks.
If there is a wish, let it be this:
if I must be woman, let me
at least
be defiant.
Let me stand on the streets
like a man — not graceless,
but with a swagger to
shake nations.
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