You ask me why I love being a woman.
I could speak of the ways we are taught to tend.
To hold, to soften.
A rocking chair postured in selflessness.
Moving for others, rarely for itself.
That is one truth, but not the only one.
There is a fullness I came to. Without asking.
Not given, not earned, something that lived in me long before I knew
how to name it.
The fullness I carry
belongs to no one
who might touch me.
It is not awakened, it does not wait.
I have lived in opposition to my own shape, called it discipline, called it virtue.
Until even silence grew tired of my resistance.
Now there is no argument.
My body
Stands, soft, unrevised.
If I am loved, it is incidental, a passing light through a room
already lit.
Mari Sánchez Cayuso 
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