A million asteroids of all genders called woman. Those are me.
You raise an eyebrow. I raise mine. Must I remind you what woman means?
Woman is the shaping of a skin, it is a face turned towards the wind, it is resilience. Woman is remembering oppression directed at that skin and that face. Woman is birthing resilience found by surprise inside its womb.
Woman is legs stretching languorously like a cat’s, thundering mightily up steps, wrapping tightly around little spoon. Woman is ribs stretching impossibly to breathe in wild, oxygenated beauty, to breathe out stinging, carbonated pain. Woman is the trestle of flesh cupping a bellybutton, the center of its own universe.
I am that sculpted skin, that windswept face, those pumping legs, those heaving ribs, that supernova bellybutton. I am all of those things.
Because I am multitudes —multitudes I cannot completely name, multitudes you will never fully understand— only the pronoun “they” can fill the space you make for me in your utterance. Four letters: Two consonants, one vowel, one in-between. Four shapes inscribed with meaning: Two yin’s, one yang, and the s-shaped swirl for “Savannah” in between, a little bit of its opposite in the center of each.