A WOMAN’S MUSTS

Must a woman hurl
All of herself,
Be measured
But found half-full?

Can’t she hand in
A piece of her territory
And content
The world?

Should she hold on
To a man’s sleeves
Or hide behind
A man’s clothing
To ride the world?

Must her soul
Take a man’s voice
To be heard,
Or must her sinews
Mesh with those of
A man’s to gird
Herself against
The wiles of her days?

Yet
Wasn’t it a woman
Who shaved a man’s head
To his death
And more?

Was it not a woman
Who sang
A familiar lullaby
As the prince of Heaven
Spent thirty-three moons
In her arms
Just to rock the dying world
On its way
To paradise’s portal?