When Women Write

When women write,
they don't need paper.
Their cheeks are streaked with
love letters,
hearts - crumpled pages of
classic poetry books,
spines - tree trunks engraved
with sacred texts.
Their breasts may not hold milk,
but the stories they carry
can put all the libraries of the world to shame.

Women write in the language of
marks, scars, love handles, frown lines.
They write with eyes on empty walls,
faces, skies.
Their tongues write on parched skin
of a lover wild, their fingerprints
on moist dough knead the past,
present and future into a mass of
infinite possibilities.
Their breaths write on threats, abuses.

When they stand naked
under the shower, washing away
all the poetry that spills from their
torn bodies, hearts, minds -
rivers engulf their being,
flood their hearts.
Rivers run wild caressing them,
healing them.
Rivers dying to know secrets
of being reborn every moment
you are killed -
infant, mother, sister, wife, prostitute

Rivers learn to write poetry from women
in a language, fortunately some can read.
Unfortunately, very few can understand.