They want me to tell them stories, like their fathers did
About women who are small, and fragile, and hard of hearing
But whose lips never stop moving, with the exception of death
Women who are born, kind of like Jesus, with a definite purpose of loyalty, and obedience
Women who could change the world with the guidance of a celestial air of masculinity
Whose women are these?
Do they belong in the sky too, like this ghost you speak of?
I listen, and say nothing
I don’t dare part my lips
They see this, and ask, “What kind of woman are you?”
I am an idle womb