Apparently My Pussy is Dangerous

It sets off alarms
gives off a chemical trail
from my groin
 
I get waved aside,
and she clinically explains
how she will violate my
comfort for
the safety of all
those around me
 
She puts her hand in my waistband,
rolling past my belly button
then sweeps in lines
across the private triangle,
down the inner thigh,
back up,
first the front,
turn around
then rear, repeat
 
As the backs of her knuckles
rake across my jeans
I think of all the fingers
that have swiped my cunt
in a similar fashion
without permission
 
I channel all the women
who have felt the same,
whose bodies recoil
because touch
has often
come without consent
 
They test my hands
she tests her hands
still it registers as unknown danger
 
She takes me to a table,
asks me if I prefer a
private screening
for when she explores me
again
I shake my head ‘no’
 
Do it in public,
in the light of day,
where everyone is forced
to watch your hands
sliding across the
hills of my breast,
the slope of my groin
the curve of my legs
I want nothing of
my discomfort
to go
unseen
 
Finally, my pussy is cleared as a ‘danger’
Perhaps it was my body’s
lunar bloodshed,
a powerful reminder of
all the babies I will never touch,
or the scent of the first time someone
inserted themselves into
my body and heart,
or the times when men
carelessly scratched at my interior
or forced their way into
my most sacred space to
desecrate it from
the inside out
 
Perchance it’s just the weeping
of my vagina
for all the times
men sought oppress its nature,
a force
beyond their grasp,
a magic they
cannot harness
 
It will never
belong to them,
its untamable energy refusing,
no matter how much
they will it,
to sit in the corner and
just, “be quiet”
 
Don’t they know by now
it’s where we stash our power
where our supremacy sits
in wait
how it galvanizes us
the goddesses we are
 
This organ refuses silence
it screams:
I am not here to fulfill your needs, desires, pleasure, and fantasies
You cannot own what you do not understand
You cannot take what isn’t yours
You cannot take what isn’t yours
You will not take what isn’t yours
 
But possibly, my snatch secretly plots
while I sleep
building bombs out
of its juices, static electricity
and sheer nerve
because it’s smart, this pussy
it knows exactly
how ready we are
for this world
fashioned by men,
sculpted from female flesh
and our anguish,
how ready we are
to have it blown
into extinction