Freedom

I am not in Iran,
Saudi Arabia or Pakistan;
when I leave my apartment I can
walk where I want to walk, with
no veil, no headscarf
no make up laws or prohibition of
hand-holding or fucking strangers
I meet in bars. No need to
avert my eyes, no fear that my form
will offend or my pregnancy
meet with hard stone and red blood on
these Hong Kong avenues.

There is no need for me to
be unhappy; here I am safe to slide
behind a steering wheel or buy cigarettes or wear
lipstick, a scarlet slash that tastes
of chemical freedom, sweet as strawberries;
there is no law forbidding me from
playing cards or buying books,
no fear of walking into the night’s dark corners, but

I fear for my sisters. I fear for myself,
that I breathe here – only an airfare – from despair and
persecution. I have not been fed or
fattened upon a diet of
knowing my place or serving a God,
I have not been hounded,
no more than one can expect in a world where men are men, and women some
fearsome, perfumed
unknown

I have my freedom; cradled here
between hands, breasts and body that have known no
enslavement. I can walk, I can pray,
I can turn my back on my family and disappear without dishonour
I have a passport, a name
a bank account, a bed; that does not
discriminate against the men
spilling their seed into its softness
I can be vulgar, particular,
outspoken: no patriarchy gags these lips of mine. I am free to shine
and burn undimmed,

still sore from the feeling of
last night’s freedom of my
unmarried man between my thighs,
I am tasting my
uncagedness as if for the
first time
and thanking someone,
somewhere for the possibility, no;
the human, female right
to be bright, and to be alive.

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About fiercemissc

Twenty-something Geordie girl living and working in Hong Kong. Young, free and single and making the most of it.
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