customs.

you wrote about him,

and i write about you,

though, if i were truly

of this age, i would be 

free to think

in nonsexist ways;

i would write about you,

and you would be she:

a woman, forty percent

more than a man.

so say i write about you,

and you are she, 

so then, what have you done 

that i write about you?

you pick the classics 

and their masters

and take prisoner

their good ideas

and several significant novelties

and present a present to society

at which point,

you become a classic novelty,

with more paper liberty

though still confined by stories

of him, of her,

but more of history.

oddly enough, though you be

woman, you carry on history

as if it were your own:

you do not dare, do not dare

disturb the universe.

shantih shantih shantih.

is it true that i cannot write

about you at all?

is this your story, or his after all?

you have said what you meant,

but surely you cannot be sure

that i have heard you say it all:

i do not listen all that well.

i have forgotten who you are.

but, is it not true 

(and tell us the truth):

you have forgotten who you are.