It is not your breasts that make you a woman  

But the heart that lies behind your ribs  

Pounding with life and vigor  

And, ultimately, love.  

  

It is not the blood between your legs that makes you a woman  

But the blood in your veins,  

Carrying the power of your ancestors,  

And their heritage of strength.   

  

It is not your pain that makes you a woman  

A concept like that cannot based on suffering,  

But your happiness and life  

A life not only made of misery, no matter what they may say.  

  

Women, fearfully and wonderfully made  

If not by a god then by the universe  

If not by the universe then by her own realization   

Without thought for your thin definitions.  

  

“What is a woman?”  

Fine, then what is life? What is God?  

Define for me euphoria, grief, and hope.  

  

You sputter, with drugstore lipstick  

(I’m sorry, but it’s true)  

“I know it when I feel it”  

I can only assume she does too.