(Edited to add written version of poem)
Not sure why I couldn't upload the video here, except that I'm a low-tech blogger who still prefers pen and paper, but anyways...
And this is roughly the text of the spoken word piece:
"This Pussy of Mine"
The wild thing about this pussy of mine, its intimately connected to my mind, to hands that swing an ax, splitting wood in two,
like how I once stood above my body as uninvited fingers sliced this pussy of mine, when I was only two years older than nine, when one plus one did not equal yes.
Splinters fall to the ground, I raise my ax, avoid knots in the wood, those phantom limbs if I could.…
Not a weak child, a girl strong, wild, still unfurled by a boy’s hands, I didn't understand how a prince could possibly save me from a man.
Split between affection and protection, burnt by inner sexism’s fire, my own desire unnamed, I remained disembodied from this pussy of mine,
intimately connected to calloused feet, scraped knees, that ran to feel free, thick thighs slide tackled boys twice my size, hips swayed when music played, lips polished words like sand.
With lined hands, I cut grains I no longer need to carry, like the pack I shouldered up a mountain pass beside a man who after countless locker room conversations never once considered molestation to be alright.
A man I liked at first sight, who fell in love with me, not for my smile, but for my grit through miles we hiked, he liked my soul, he saw me whole,
when he told me I was beautiful, he meant all of me-- but I couldn't see myself as one, still undone, cut in two, how can there be a me and you, when part of I lies on the ground, the sound of my breath uncertain, a curtain between me and my sexuality.
You see, I like sex too, but it took me way too many years to find this page, to come to this stage and say out loud in front of a crowd I like it too—-imagine if we were all taught this could be true, how much easier it would be for a me and a you, two whole souls at play, with hands invited to stay.
I stand here holding this newly sharpened ax, and a microphone, knowing I’m not alone in my stories of misogyny, of pieces splintered apart, as if this pussy of mine were not connected to a heart, with dreams beyond mother, wife, as if my life only exists in relation to others,
my body chopped: breasts orbs, legs trees, hair rope, mouth cave, ass a moon of its own rising—
as if it’s surprising these parts belong to I, who can cut gnarled knots out of wood, who could speak unforgotten pearls, who could hurl definitions of womanhood I never understood anyway,
who can say the word "pussy" out loud, who can lay underneath my own invited hands and release embers of desire, for like the fire I intend to revise, from ashes flames can still rise.
Oh this pussy, pussy of mine.