Long ago,
sometime in the past,
my grandmother
was forced to spend time in a cowshed
in the backyard,
to hide her shame,
away from light and humanity,
five days a month
for she was unclean and impure,
because she used to bleed.
Today,
and maybe tomorrow,
I, the woman,
with all my wisdom
have to stand outside the temple gate
in the hot sun, hours together,
not allowed to touch anything pious
not allowed to touch anything pious
as I am unclean and impure
five days a month
for I, too, bleed.
So, to utter the word “post modern”
is for me
like pronouncing
like pronouncing
Alveolar, palatal sounds
