why I am not a female poet

so it's true,

I cannot write of menstruation
with words darker than the blood itself,

I cannot recycle the image
in patterns of lunar months,

I have no tampon to point to,
to prove to you my afflictions,

and my breasts never grew,
no training bras restrict them.

And the taste of cock is foreign;
I cannot therefore conjure up the steed
or the rampart
or the omnipotent sadistic hebrew god, prick in hand,
chest bared, gorilla-like,
celestial rapist summoning floods to ravage a virgin earth.

And I have no metaphors--
no similes--for incest,
weight gain, sluts, or hymen--

I am silent as the hymen
when it comes to its being split.

But mainly,
honestly,
I think it's the penis dangling pink between my legs.

That just might be it:
my genitals get in the way.