THE QUESTION

I stand before the mirror

and examine my breasts.

protruding forth from my chest

and demanding kindness, free

ice cream, and violence.

my speckled face, freckled pale

brown like organic eggs,

ushes pink.

my eyebrows unkempt

and short hair untidy at the crown.

I grip my buttocks.

dissatised.

I chase the paradox around my head.

The filmy, sticky grain of

femininity slides across my skin.

It twinkles in every stare

and as my weight shifts from hip

to hip, I’m gliding as I walk.

My clenched jaw,

my small lips,

my broad shoulders

like an adolеscent boy.

I worship at the altar of

femininity in thе women who

suckle the lavender from my breath.

It poses nothing to me

but a question

to which I do not have the answer