A Vanilla Kind of Womanhood

By Laura Monaghan

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You’re primed on how to plate yourself,

from the womb you’re on display.

Warned that the last treat left on the shelf,

is the first one thrown away.

With savage hands they crack you open,

your shell, a brittle shield.

The tender yolk of you spills golden,

too raw to hold, you yield.

You melt like butter on their lips,

full bodied and richly flavoured.

But you’re gone in gulps instead of sips;

don’t they know you’re to be savoured?

They prefer a vanilla kind of womanhood.

Mild flavours their tongues would understand.

‘Babe, you’re so damn finger-licking good.’

Only then to be accused of being bland.

You’re taught to heed this submissive paradigm,

this recipe of womanhood used to patronise.

Preaching that unlike wine, women don’t better with time.

Silly girl, everyone knows that people eat with their eyes.

Now no longer fit to feed fat and greedy mouths,

you’ve surpassed your expiration date.

But please remind me,

whoever said you were theirs at all to taste?

For the curves of your body aren’t limited by

their standard size muffin tin.

Nor will their cookie cutter moulds succeed

in the effort to have your abundance be tucked in.

Let yourself simmer and bubble,

dare to be a mouthful too large to swallow.

You were made for more than the front display

of Mr Baker’s shop window.

For in this era of liberation,

women should be seen as more than a temptation

because it’s those same women

who are our only hope at salvation.