Maybe it’s sexist,
I’ve been told its preference
To avoid the artwork of a man

Men are visual
As my mother stated
Her eyes lowered over the stove making scrambled eggs
They enjoy beauty
A baseline of insecurities
Wedged into her brain
The list of magazine articles
Mapping out ways to divide your weight by summer

Men’s visions are women
Without voices, Animal-like
Communicating through soft moans
Of pleasure
Attached to their ego-spike

Women
Without names
Or disasters or history
Handmade and selected from heaven
Childlike, untouched

Angels
Without aspirations or dreams
Or religion or complications
To exist to become
His favorite piece of clothing to wear
And wash
And tear apart by brick hands

Men write to describe
Bones and skin and flesh
Color highlighted in her corneas and lips

Maybe
Women write their own music and religion
They are not centerpieces
On the table of existence

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