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By Jane E
Women are not metaphors for liberty or justice.
We are not brushed, we are not marble.
We are human as you…
We are part of Earth, as you.
We live in your house, like you.
We are thoughtful or pretty. We are flighty or calm.
We are tortured physique and masculine, too.
Our eyes are seldom whitened over by the chip of the chisel and polish of lye.
Our noses are seldom so fine and high; we have allergies and blood and boogers.
The coif is not so in place; we’re normally greasily disordered… Like you.
Our fingers are sometimes nailed and sometimes knotted, hands holding hands.
Our thighs may be shaped, though we are your lovers. And again we may weigh, cells and labors.
Our lips kiss, and they taste; they bubble with your herpes, they crack from thirst.
For the most of our lives, our breasts remain unyoung; only in a bit swollen and milked, for only a few.
Our minds, though strapped, though straitened, work no slower, no genuine, no more or less genius.
When we bear life, our bodies swell and stretch like pods. Raised on your pedestals, we would topple over. We would scream. You know us in time. Our voices are moving from womanly chambers, spread and trembling and yanked with birthing, as marble cannot do, hovering above us all in groins and beams, wavering like heaven, menacing conditional muscle and skull. Flight, might, buried to pulse, to power, statures sown. Figures that can never be grown in stone.