All the boring tedious young men
with dead eyes & dirty hair . . .
all the mad young men who hate their mothers,
all the squalling baby boys . . .

have grown up
& now write book reviews
or novels about the life
of the knife-fighter,
or movies in which grown men
torture each other-

all the squalling boring baby boys!

I am not part of their game.
I have no penis.
I have a pen, two eyes
& I bleed monthly.

When the moon shines on the sea
I see the babies
riding on the moonwaves
asking to be born.

Does everything else in nature hate
its mother?
Does the chick fling
bits of eggshell at the hen?
Does the pear spit
its seeds against the pear tree?

Who made all these squalling baby boys?

I am a reasonable, hardworking woman.
I sit at my desk & write
from eight to three.
When I emerge I do not ask your blessing.
What have I done but bleed
to get your curse?