Biological Woman
after Maya Angelou
Out,
I answer nature’s call:
what I risk to possess
a body
that must empty—
Once, a self-identified
feminist warned me
that by being in public
toilets, I threaten
her safety:
No way
on Earth
you’d ever understand.
You’re not a woman,
not biologically.
I consider the natural world:
chromosomes a naked eye
can’t quantify,
junk that’s nameless
’til it’s not—
Moons ago
at a Walmart, I had to go—
A single occupant
stalling time,
I gave in,
settled on a room for men
to relieve pretense—
Organically,
I encounter a man.
Unable to place a question
mark, he provokes
a male proclivity:
I could make you leak.
Pardon the absolute
—tempted men only
bend bone to serve
flaccid matters:
phlegm, fist, viscera—
my biology, obvious
across the bathroom tile—
Stupefied by proof,
I mock a springtime chest,
needle what’s manmade—
—if not a woman,
then what am I?
I must be
supernova—
a total eclipse
of arteries—
I fill with water
on Mars & call it blood—
With my history,
one anticipates
holes—
Extraterrestrial & other,
I ride the bus back—
If nobody
sharpens me
into myth,
if no one
enters my orbit,
or aims
a bullet—
why must I fish for explanation
as if gravity needs
disproving?
Crossing a street,
I conceive of constellations
as women
who lived once,
who reach us now,
who lit ways forth
so we make it home safe—
I witness a shooting
star & wonder why—
—do we wish
on fading fires?
A woman dies
& still,
her sisters
dare to burn brighter—
Biology
can’t explain that.
How we rise
from earth—
How we leak with light—
So,
do I threaten you?
Good.
I must be a woman,
biologically.
