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Poem	On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you little woman, little carrot top, little turned-up nose, pushing you out of myself as my mother pushed me out of herself, as her mother did, & her mother's mother before her, all of us born of woman. I am the second daughter of a second daughter of a second daughter, but you shall be the first. You shall see the phrase "second sex" only in puzzlement, wondering how anyone, except a madman, could call you "second" when you are so splendidly first, conferring even on your mother firstness, vastness, fullness as the moon at its fullest lights up the sky. Now the moon is full again & you are four weeks old. Little lion, lioness, yowling for my breasts, rowling at the moon, how I love your lustiness, your red face demanding, your hungry mouth howling, your screams, your cries which all spell life in large letters the color of blood. You are born a woman for the sheer glory of it, little redhead, beautiful screamer. You are no second sex, but the first of the first; & when the moon's phases fill out the cycle of your life, you will crow for the joy of being a woman, telling the pallid moon to go drown herself in the blue ocean, & glorying, glorying, glorying in the rosy wonder of your sunshining wondrous self.
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