Monkey Flower Funk

I have not been a woman.  Nor a girl.  No.  Scratch.  I have.  Yes.  I am.  What I should say is not a woman in the automatic sense.  Instead remotely controlled by the master of infirmity.  Sitting behind a wall pushing buttons.  Steering me this way that.  Establishing where and when and what.  And yet.  It was up to me to carry this physiological impediment.  At school.  Physical E.  The master failed to manage the fear.  Curb that dread of my unveiled shape.  And laughing there was.  Sure.  Children will do that.  Adults too you’ll find.  Thank all facets of logic I was born in the north.  Where padding is assumed.  I celebrate the scarves and sweaters and cardigans and fleeces that kept my contours quiet.  And the body warm too.  For that matter.  Oh my head.  My head.  Profligacy of libation.  Oh my: oh my, the patients.  If they could penetrate this cerebrum for a minute or more.  What would they think?  My inadequacies known.  We are all hiding in these brains.  I always lie down in the hard part.  And yet.  My flaw is not as severe as others.  On the opening eye.  The men can’t see it usually.  With eyes open.  And the eyes are always open.  And yes.  I have grown to like men seeing me.  I do not know why exactly.  I only know when.  For all the body tingles.  There is something enthralling when a man wants you.  Or a woman no matter even.  In a state of physical disparity.  Their want renders them powerless.  And you take that power.  It packs your very being.  A congested bosom suddenly.  Fills in all your missing bits.  And you rise up like Gaia in the world and you are all the sexual power of the universe.  In an instant.  I can still smell that priest on me.  His monkey flower funk.  That cock and bull stench.  But the odours won’t hold.  Unless there are conquests at sea.  Conquests at sea.  That sea does not look one bit beatable.  But this captain looks hardy.  And hard as captains should.  There is power there.  Urge he preside with mastery. 

 Oh my: oh my head.