The Father Of Femininity

Let me meander around the arena a bit,
let me amble where all the old girls graze;
please grant me grace to access their
space, ingest a sustaining cultural chew
of it, sit and ruminate on what it is
about things feminine.

I won’t bend gender lines or obscure true
differences we delight in; scratching my
balls is an icon of maleness I won’t trade
– nor, I suppose, would girls give away their
bathroom lipstick and powder titivations,
but I need to know why it is so.

Girls can command. Models in the refined
mood of the military dominion define what it
is to be a woman in uniform – leadership at
the expense of femininity. Male or female,
anxiety is the same, equally disposed to see
the irony of decisions made from frustration.

At least we share in that! But when all else fails
who sighs, bats their eyes and shyly smiles?
Dammed right, I’ve seen it, even tried it! Okay,
it didn’t work for me either. That’s why I’ve agreed
magnanimously, in such company the ‘girls together’
is not mother of, but the father of femininity.
© I.D. Carswell 2007