happy women's month!

March is Women's Month! In celebration of this, id like to share this poem by joi barrios.

TO BE A WOMAN IS TO LIVE AT A TIME OF WAR

To be a woman
Is to live at a time of war.

I grew up
with fear beside me,
uncertain of a future,
hinged to the men of my life;
father, brother,
husband, son.
I was afraid to be alone.

To be a mother
Is to look at poverty at its face.
For the cruelty of war
Lies not on heads that roll,
But tables always empty.
How does one look for food for the eldest
As a baby sucks at one’s breast?

No moment is without danger.
In one’s own home,
To speak, to defy
Is to challenge violence itself.
In the streets,
Walking at nightfall
Is to invite a stranger’s attack.
In my country
To fight against oppression
Is to lay down one’s life for the struggle.

I seek to know this war.
To be a woman is a never ceasing battle
To live and be free.

down there by sandra cisneros

Yes,
I want to talk at length about Men-
struation. Or my period.
Or the rag as you so lovingly put it.
All right then.

I'd like to mention my rag time.

Gelatinous. Steamy
and lovely to the light to look at
like a good glass of burgundy. Suddenly
I'm artist each month.
The star inside this like a ruby.
Fascinating bits of sticky
I-don't-know-what stuff.
The afterbirth without the birth.
The gobs of a strawberry jam.
Membrane stretchy like
saliva in your hand.

It's important you feel it's slickness,
understand the the texture isn't bloody at all.
That you don't gush
between the legs. Rather,
it unravels itself like string
from some deep deep center--
like a Russain subatomic submarine,
or better, like a mad Karlov cackling
behind beakers and blooping spirals.
Still with me?

Oh I know, darling,
I'm indulging, but indulge
me if you please.
I find the subject charming.

In fact,
I'd like to dab my fingers
in my inkwell
and write a poem across the wall.
"A Poem of Womanhood"
Now wouldn't that be something?

Words writ in blood. But no,
not blood at all, I told you.
If blood is thicker than water, then
menstruation is thicker than brother-
hood. And the way

it metamorhposizes! Dazzles.
Changing daily
like starlight.
From the first
transparent drop of light
to the fifth day chocolate paste.

I haven't mentioned smell. Think
Persian rug.
But thicker. Think
cello.
But richer.
A sweet exotic stuff
from an ancient prehistoric center.
Dark, distinct,
and excellently
female.

--- From the collection, Loose Woman

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.