Playing With The Boys

All the boring tedious young men with dead eyes & dirty hair . . . all the mad young men who hate their mothers, all the squalling baby boys . . . have grown up & now write book reviews or novels about the life of the knife-fighter, or movies in which grown men torture each other- all the squalling boring baby boys! I am not part of their game. I have no penis. I have a pen, two eyes & I bleed monthly. When the moon shines on the sea I see the babies riding on the moonwaves asking to be born. Does everything else in nature hate its mother? Does the chick fling bits of eggshell at the hen? Does the pear spit its seeds against the pear tree? Who made all these squalling baby boys? I am a reasonable, hardworking woman. I sit at my desk & write from eight to three. When I emerge I do not ask your blessing. What have I done but bleed to get your curse?