deem only my body of use,
so I use it.
my rage has no outward path,
so I use it.
I make the marks of rage,
weave with it, the raffia thread
across and over my skin,
the only thing I have of use.
like Frida, like Sylvia.
only my body is of use.
so I decorate it with
black sheaths and red ribbons.
I cannot pick up my pen or paintbrush,
and my outward rage has
no use, no road.
but my body is my totem,
so they say,
a nationalised service.
I do not get to say what is wrong
or right.
so I decorate and mutilate,
pour water on this block of clay.
this will not end with an armless Venus.
it is not mine.
I tremble with the shining scissors,
and wonder why I never
comment on the ugliness of
Male shoes-
yet the shaved head of a woman
makes me Feel