they ask, what makes a woman?  
is it unforgiving veins? 
a body sculpted to a mould 
or clay – unwanted – that remains? 
 
they ask, what gives you power? 
is it meek, diluted words? 
roots ripped unjustly from ground, 
or seeds – unborn – left for the birds? 
 
they ask, what makes a woman? 
So I tell them, we are gold. 
Flowing through the gaps and cracks  
from breaking out of what we’re told. 
 
we are the air that breathes life into the waves 
we are the rain that drums down onto dirt 
we are the force that sways the sea, 
the right to live, not just to be.