To be a woman is to be a banquet.
Eclectic, savory, distinguished.
A summer potluck of femininity;
a Thanksgiving toast to masculinity;
an Easter brunch with androgyny.
It is to be the cow;
the milk, butter, and bread.
To feed the mouths of her calves.
It is to be the sheep;
the wool, thread, and blanket.
To harbor rest for her lambs.
It is to bear the verbal sword
to the necks of outspoken kings.
It is to bear the cloth shield
around her blooming chest.
It is to bear the thorned throne
and to sit in her silent agony.