Sixty seven year old strange man,
in my room.
knelt by my womb,
trying to crawl inside,
as if I am a monster truck,
and there are tools
to destroy the city,
to save some cells,
and keep me in one,
if I resist.
My sister has come,
from England,
screams,
for the future, of her green and pleasant land,
but my present is her past,
as the sixty seven year old strange man,
steers me through the streets,
and Arlene sneers at my shame,
before going back to her well heated scandals.
I am not a slut.
I am not an incubator.
I am not a slave.
I am not asleep,
but every woman,
in her proud, painful shirt,
screams,
“This is what a feminist looks like”,
without looking my way.
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