My father taught me how to shoot a gun. <br />I aimed the barrel at the row of tin cans <br />and hit one out of five. Not bad, he said. <br />Not bad at all. For a girl. <br />My brother told me to direct the ridicule <br />at my flesh and not my heart <br />because flesh heals he said, the heart <br />mothers its inferiority forever <br />and plants her guilt. <br />My husband encircled my vulnerability <br />as if it were a rosebush, protecting <br />the sections under attack, relinquishing <br />those that were lost, without remorse. <br />I love you, he said, no matter what. <br />I am strong and astonished. <br />Contentedly suffused with knowledge. <br />I can run and throw and punch with purpose <br />whatever needs a good hit. <br />It's horrendous, my notion of femininity. <br />To have a mind, to have a heart. Imagine!<br /><br />Lisa Zaran<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-a-girl-3/
