How it Feels to be a Woman (Sometimes)

A poem

There has been 
no time 
to listen to the birds.
Nor has there 
been time 
to dig my hands in the dirt.
A woman’s job 
in a world built on men’s ideals
insists that we 
make ourselves small,
always caring for the thing
outside of ourselves,
as if it is in our nature
to be caretaker only,
in human service
—god forbid, a human person!—
with our own needs
and desires
to play
and waste time
and be care free.

Maybe our daughters 
will map the equation 
to this complex problem
if we don’t burn our world down
first.