Poem: Am I Woman? Do I Roar?
Am I woman? Do I roar?
I wonder what people say in their head when they see me.
Am I mature and shapely and even a little sexy?
Do I bounce along the pavement in girlish steps?
Do I glide and grace like a lady?
What do they see?
Do they tell their child to ‘watch out for that lady’,
Or does the bartender say ‘that girl left her keys behind.’
Do they mutter ‘fuck off woman’ under their breath,
When I laugh too loudly on the phone.
I wonder whether it changes depending on
which version of myself I’m presenting to the world.
In sports shorts and that black cap with the little daisy on
That Natalia gave me. In orange converse,
And a t-shirt far too long. In checkered vans and a dress
far too short. With my hair
Up, down, a bit of both.
In baggy jeans bought hastily
On my way to work on a rainy day. In a top that swings low,
In this fucking linen shirt I never seem to take off?
Legs with short slivers of sunlight peeking out
Catching the light, twinkling in rebellion.
With armpits dense with light brown
curls, With exposed scalp at the base of a head,
With nails not long or short. Just sort of, left.
Sparkling eyelids and fluttering lashes, or deep Purple loops
surrounding grey eyes. Colourful socks
Peering over the tops of my shoes. Do I look like a grown up?
Do I look like I have a job at a desk? Like I know what I’m doing?
Am I woman?
Do I roar?
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