(Labor) November 25, 2010

With all my genius

I allowed a penis

To open me up and release in me a love child…

Not the flower power

But more Babel’s tower

For only God could have meant for her to be here…

And so I warred in the spirit

With the soul of the y-chromosome

Only to come up empty-hearted

But not broken

Mending actually from a wound

That wasn’t really that deep

A history that wasn’t that profound

But just enough to create she who is here now

And so I still go to war

Refusing to be confused

But simply wanting for her

To have what I did have

And what he didn’t have

And so no one tells you how to deal–except society

The white wig, black-robed, Bible-toting, gavel-hammering system

That says, “You don’t know how to be parents,

And so let me show you.”

Then Mr. Y-Chromosome

Steada forging through

Ends it with the weakest declaration ever:

“I DON’T WANT TO BE WITH YOU!”

And in retrospect, I dare to inquire

What does that have to do with meeting your girlfriend

Who doesn’t want to have anything to do with my mini-me?

So, no, NOT the end of me.

I continue to labor

Not for his heart–

I resigned that job long ago to be exact;

But for the oneness that society says unwed parents should not share

And call it fetal assistance

In the instant

Bondage…

A garnished cent

Never meant

To occur through a system

That in 2 months will tell you, you must never quit your (labor).

And unlike your soldiers that came and set up camp in my womb

You will no longer know where the fruits of your (labor) go…

THIS is the monster you created.