‘Vaginal Soliloquy’ (A tribute to Maya Angelou)

When one meets

a consummated girl-a reluctant one,

what would one say

if her story is unheard-

vaginal soliloquy.

No, don’t laugh;

it is a soliloquy,

for the cotton-eared audience.

The people are there,

it is known that

they are mealy-mouthed,

but they have put cushions

into their ears.

They listen to

the jazz songs,

jazzing them up

with life.

A bluesy voice

could never give them

the sodding comfort,

they want.

The vanguard destroyed

the ready-for-obstetrics vagina,

when complaints made

of reluctant consummation.

Where did she go?

She became an angler,

throwing her net

over an empty pond.

Hubris, she makes now

below the proscenium arch

to the audience,

readying themselves

to clear their seats.

She shouts and huddles me

out of fear.

Her pride was transient.

She now takes shelter

in a little boy-

her half child.

The last time

I saw her,

she was writing her memoir,

her child playing beside.

I was the loner,

listening carefully to this play,

she highly regarded my name

in her memoir,

she said.