what do you decide of a woman's reputation.
what do you dissect of Women.

women who ink shelter in liquid skies, at the age of blossoming five, to draw honey-dripping safe havens.
heaven in themselves, their cortisolic minds awaken them when loved ones bodies refuse to sleep: midnight soul-syncing.
soul-syncers, the Usain Bolts who run before their dying fathers, mothers, lovers with blankets to cover failing hearts and feed lungs: advocates for life.
advocates yet activists with knife-edged loyalty to blood-woven friendships, their blood more abundant than water. over sufficient.

women brush their paint on the world in cycles, imprinting Bordeaux as Vogue Color of the Month.
their shade of wine a fifth vital sign, you cannot empire unless they multiply.
survivors who play sun-lit sea chords with arrows shot at their hearts, they strip the moon's craters of lyrical depth; take them away.
they take the pain away, when they swallow vowels, then use their voices to spill stories dripping what they crave to hear: I see you.

titanic women rip the deepest ocean broken and paradoxically build in fire. Are not angels homed by match-lit stars?
angels of one thousand and one nights, women are generational: every era–each decade–all of History.
timeless when they, count their breaths, in seconds, as they cry the birth of children.
schools of life: they raise eternal societies with their minds; a deja-vu of intellectual legacies.

women X Wednesdays on mayan & leap-year calendars, to mark grief with love across time.
writers who spend nights drinking replayed conversations as the light bites, between insomniac lips; words have eyes that do not sleep.
they are Margaret Atwood's 1987 air that inhabits you for a moment only – women are necessary.
your woman, wounds you, then hands over the survival kit.

it is not what you make of woman.
Women. it is what we make of you.

By Lara Kazimi