The Only Of Only Being Woman I want to write the language of my sex hear the crack of rope again a childish squeak of crosses into desk. I want the oranges and apples of my chest to be those grown-up watermelons. I want to feel the crack and split the burrowing erotic trip between two thighs. I want the moment when a raspberry splits my teeth the naked juice cascading open lips. I want the bulging sweet fecundity of birth again the unconditional taste of love that opened every pore of earth earth's sweet parlay of flowers happy birth that barefoot walk of motherhood. I want to feel again those suckling lips swimming sleepy in my milk that gentle calm of dummy rocking on my hip. I want a new un-written law of 'woman' at the washing board where stooped she dyed the sheets with blue and hung them on the travelling hoist or dropped them water cold to copper hot. I want to talk about the nothingness of being backyard bound the claim that wife and house are one take out the flack, the jokes, the puns the only of only being woman. Copyright © Helen Hagemann 2000