The Furies in The Birthroom
A feral fable of female embodiment
Perhaps your identity crisis is not the result of any man-made thing.
Perhaps it’s the denial of what your body has been patiently explaining to you for years—that being a woman is not what you once thought.
The Furies of Your Body
The furies of your body have stalked you for years, yet, with a fearful glance backward, you’ve always outwalked them. Now, hunched on the floor, hot with sweat and blood and groaning as the child drops, you can’t escape. Now, at last, they’re closing in, reminding you of—
The blood you hid from your mind as you crumpled pads in your fist.
The place you shaved to disguise your sex in a bland expanse of belly.
The climaxes you faked, too frightened to discover the shape of your desire.
From the corner of the birth room, they tell you—
Your femininity is not what your mother said:
Hair shampooed. Legs crossed. Face scrubbed.
Your femininity is not what your roommate said:
Good grades, short skirts, small waist.
Your femininity is not what your manager said:
Self care, meal kits, boundaries.
Your femininity is not what the minister said:
Cover your mouth, cover your head, cover it all.
Beneath the red nail polish and tidy resumé you thought your sex sits a depth unplumbable. You could drop a stone into its well and never hear it fall.
Beneath The Manmade Things
Your femininity is:
You,
a naked world of pain and creation, with a delta marking the passage from sleep to wakefulness. Wherever you walk, sleeping crocuses break through the cracks in the sidewalk and bare their faces to the frost. The child in you rocks your hips wider, itching to emerge, hungering for your touch.
Men call you a witch, not because you cast dark spells, but because you know the Earth too well. In these years of swelling and shrinking, she is your closest kin. Your bones shift like tectonic plates. You carry oceans in your belly. Your arms are branches, your legs like tree trunks, strong and sturdy for bearing new life. And when you open your mouth, blood-streaked fangs threaten the intruder. You are a biosphere of life and gore and unearned gentleness. Every enclave of your being seeks to harbor and protect what’s yours.
In these times of swelling and expelling, you are not woman man-made—very polite, your hair shiny as your smile, and your buttons all done up. You are woman deep down sillion—soft earth plowed and turned up glistening.
Arms Made to Cradle
As the Furies leave their corner and advance into the light, you blink. No snaky hair, no glowing eyes. Who are these figures, once so frightening? You realize that in your fear, you never turned around to look.
Mother Mary, her face worn, but gentle.
Hannah, once barren, carrying the mantle she wove each year for the child she gave away to God.
Monica, eyes still red from the tears she shed for her prodigal son.
Women mill around you in a luminous cloud, number upon number, young and old.
“How many generations of love did it take for you to be born?” they ask. “Now, you understand. Raise your daughters well.”
This is not you losing yourself. This is you finding out the Truth. Do not shield your eyes, or blind yourself with golden pins. Look her in the mirror (do you hear the ocean shifting?). Love, be free.
Love 😍
Phenomenal