i am a feminism

hourglass-shaped and fair of face
with whirling curls, long scratchy nails
and an itsy bitsy, teeny weeny waist.
with glitter and dyes and all things nice,
shoes with elegant, crippling heels and
worn by a being with a deeper propensity to feel
empathy? than their counterparts.
it's biologically proven; life-givers are surely,
by nature, upstream swimmers
created and fated to nurture our young.

in my understated way
i consider myself a feminist,
still today, it’s a mission which is necessary,
i’m not being contrary or facetious
just stating a fact,
and if you don’t like it boys, lump it!
i will go on blowing this bloody trumpet
for Womankind,
i only wish i could be thus without the misconception
that there is some deception involved,
some master-plan for female domination
(yeah right!) i’m fighting a good fight,
i merely believe in equality,
a woman’s right not to be marginilised
in-or alternatively-advertently
by mtv or militant factions;
the taliban; for relevant
contemporary example.

i want to have a hand in ending the violence
which still occurs, year on year
(the statistics speak for themselves, my dears),
there are plenty of ladies out there
living under different laws than we
and harbouring an age-old, visceral fear
against sublimination, the potency of
degradation -
can you hear her collective call?
we live in a global village after all, girls.

the Vagina Monologues, the various books –
all ‘Written on The Body’ of ‘The Second Sex’,
over these, i wept, again and again.
is it a matter of education, culture, nature or nurture?
my question was answered, mid-kitchen,
where trolls in the glen were consorting again –
and ‘ah, i see’, said murat the chef,
post dissection and explanation,
‘you are not man-hating lesbian -
and in that case, i am a feminism’.