Coy

I was raised to be a man’s woman. I was taught to cook and sew. I was taught to be submissive. I was shown a picture of my father and told he was the head of household. I was shown a picture of my brother and told, he was a man among men. I was shown a picture, of my mother and told she lived to serve a man. I was shown a picture of myself and told I would find a man. There is so much reference to him it is difficult to reference myself. Reaching for myself like reaching through water for a fish. She is a gold and brown spotted coy, shiny, slippery, illusive to my touch, but he is quicker, more practiced in the art of catching fish, and as he touches me I define myself, I am a man’s woman. I was born to be a man’s woman, bone of his bone and all that. I was taught to comfort a man, to be his helpmate, his consolation, his encouragement, his inspiration. I have been to a dozen men, what I’ve never been to myself. He handles my coy roughly, and she hides in a corner of the aquarium. If I could catch hold of her, I’d take her out of this fish tank, set her free in the big pond.