My Sisters And Me Poem by Delilah Miller

Red is for our monthly blood,
never respected.
Purple is for our majesty,
as queens of mystery.
That's why
a big red and purple tent
is where we'd come to be,
the women of the world
and me.

We'd pat each other's thighs
just to say 'How good these came to be.'
Enjoy your fertility, the old would say;
We'd nibble on sweet pomegranate,
my sisters and me.

Mothers or barren woman,
I'd touch their stomachs quietly
reminding each of their incredible power,
belonging only to women, to me.

If we happened to bleed,
we'd sing a high, clear song harmoniously,
to celebrate the cleanliness or our bodies,
a promise to my sisters and me.

But that tent was long and far ago,
before virginity overruled mystery,
before we were valued by our silence,
as brides are sold even now.
So every night I send up a cry
for the women,
my sisters
and me.