Anatomy of a Woman

A woman is everything and nothing 

She's pink feathers and severed breasts

She's a victor and a victim

She is born or made, shaped and shaded by herself and others

But always, in the end, her own creation

She emerges from a womb, a shell, a closet

She can invent herself or invent excuses

But the truth of her resides in the secret moments

The sighs, cries, and whispers, mumbles, groans, 

and the silent screams she keeps inside

The frustration, the longing, the rage, the still-beating broken heart, the triumphant grin, the single slip of a teardrop on cement 

Promises made, kept, broken, and forgotten

Dreams held close, unrealized, or fulfilled

She's the Venus de Milo, disabled by destroyers

She's the Pieta, holding her dead child in her arms

She's the girl on the half-shell, cruising along the courses of passion

She's Madame X, who must be censored

She's Christina reaching out beyond the barn

She's Mona Lisa, keeping secrets

She's Liberty embracing the world

She's a hot mess, a piece of work, and a bloody miracle

A woman is a work of art

Appreciated, scorned, praised, or ignored

Her value is not measured by how much she costs

But by what she's had to pay