By Patricia Lee Sharpe
You didn’t make her beautiful, God,
you didn’t get her educated,
or shower riches,
but female is female
in the dark.
You designed her
for making bébés.
You gave her the urge
for sex
and motherhood,
precious motherhood, you said,
the goal of a woman’s life,
the reward for piety.
Be patient! Be good!
And you made her counterpart,
the guy from nowhere
going nowhere,
angry,
lusty,
machissimo,
doesn’t care if no! means yes! yes!
or no! no! no! he needs it, he wants it,
and look how she’s dressed, how she walks,
where she is, she’s asking for it,
and he’s no sissy
in rubbers,
besides the priest says
every fuck should be open to love.
Meaning bébé -making,
which happens.
The bébé.
Not the love.
She looks at her fatherless daughter,
her fatherless son,
and gives the one in the making
back to God.
It’s a sin, she tells me.
A sin.
