I often forget what country I’m in

What language I should be speaking

Do I drop the possession of my own body,

In deference to your sense of owner ship over it?

Is the proper greeting “I’m sorry” in the feminine?

I never learned how to ask for food in this language

So I’ve been starving in the land of men

Sucking on lollipops and catcalls

I read Lolita in the wrong language again

The language of little girls devouring themselves

Don’t rub me like a bobby pin; I am not an object of worry

or adornment

I am not rigid; my rib cage is for your protection

And when I speak the language of my body

My native beats and swells

I do not need to ask permission

All the food I find is mine

The language of my body, well fed and free

Creates armies, more bodies and new words

Everything is born in my country