My Country

My Country

This is my body.

These are my curves, my valleys and planes;

this is my country,

and I am a queen.

In my country,

I do not curtsy before the kings of other lands,

I do not bow to their demands,

I do not ask permission to love myself;

royalty is loved by decree,

and in my country, all visitors

must declare their loyalty to me.

In my country,

my word is law, and my law is gentle,

benevolent arms that reach the length of my domain

and gather all my subjects in a loving embrace –

lips, eyes, breasts, hips and thighs:

every part, in every size.

I will not will parts of my country away,

I will not despise, terrorize, or ostracize what lies inside

as some would-be conquerors have done.

I will not divide my territory,

will not pit my head against my heart,

I will cherish even the simplest parts, for,

in this land, harmony reigns,

and other queens envy the peace in my domain.

In my country,

I do not cower in fear of

adversarial monarchs in adjacent lands.

I do not fear demise at their angry hands.

My walls are fortified and fiercely guarded,

impervious, like that ancient city of fame,

but stronger:

there is no place in my courtyard

for wooden horses.

I will not open the gates,

I will not invite my enemies inside;

for all of history's great powers have fallen

by crumbling from within.

I will not surrender.

My city will never be burned to the ground,

because, though the battle rages on outside,

in my country, we are no longer at war.

Yes, there is a war, being fought outside,

a war waged quietly by unseen hands,

whose origin nobody understands,

but the fighting doesn't stop long enough to take stock.

There is a war, and mostly, the casualties are women.

Withered women, wasting away,

eyes fixed on the fun-house mirror,

on fat that does not exist,

dull eyes squeezing shut like a fist

and never opening again.

Imprisoned women, clawing their cages,

stretching, straining,

climbing up from not good enough.

But depraved brainwashing persists,

so they carve relief into their own wrists,

spilling life on the bathroom floor.

Dead and dying women –

mothers, daughters, sisters, lovers, and friends –

are scattered across the battlefield as far as I can see;

if I let that battle enter my country,

the next casualty will be me.

So in my country,

I demand peace.

I am purposely at ease,

consciously comfortable in my own skin.

I do not count calories as treason;

I do not weigh, measure, or grade my body.

I do not wish to trade my body.

I hold my body in high esteem,

because I am a queen

and I deserve no less.

This is my body.

These are my curves, my valleys and planes;

this is my country,

which peace and love maintain.