Freewill Womb

Poetry

Image Source: Unsplash

An astrologer met me on a moonlit night.
Boy, he chimed.
I assumed that he turned into a lunatic,
when the moon shined in all its glory.
I helped a man withdraw money
from the automated teller machine.
Boy, he uttered.
He reasoned that my face was stripped
of its glow and was replaced with pimples.
I imagined flushing the currency notes
down his throat, so that he would never
speak again.
The women in a social gathering
examined my low-hanging bump
and exchanged looks.
Boy, they chorused.

Because they all wanted someone
who could wear misogyny on his sleeves
and carry over the patriarchy
that they practiced.
It was at that time I was struck
by the unanimity of views
that the world held regarding
the fetus in my womb.
Androgyny, they cared not.
Identity, they knew not.
In all the mother tongues ever spoken,
they could utter only one word.
Boy.