The Burdens of my Design

         
         
         

If my vagina could speak
it would wail and weep
in anger and in sadness
for the violence and the intrusion,

It would speak of ancient rituals,
girls changing over
forced to know mutilation
of the clitoris
a symbol of man's celebration,

my vagina wants to scream
from the force of the goat's horn
as it pierces through,
but who will hear my cries?
for I must be silent, traditions insist,
I wear my mutilation with pride.

I cannot hide
from the lust of ancestors,
I must not speak of the scars
nor allow my anger to fester and rot
like the flesh ripped from me
it is their one guarantee,

my vagina pulsates with the burdens of my design
with the weight of centuries
with the suffering of women before me.
I am blinding mad my vagina
will never reach its climatic purpose
who will hear my cries? 
for I know the fate of my daughters.

My heart breaks
and I want to rise up
a protective shield, yet
how can we survive being ostracized?
Cast out, alone
with no village...no people.

If my vagina could speak,
it would speak of horrors, of despicable pain
the shame....
rushing through--I am helpless
for it is what will be...

our anguish they cultivate
for honor's sake, they asseverate.