A man who loses his privacy loses everything, and a man who gives it up of his own free will is a monster.

This girlchild was born as usual.
In a suburban home with a civil name
In a defective town with a dysfunctional inheritance
In a concrete box tinted in assorted shades of gray.
When in the midst of this drought every thread
of dependence had long been plucked from the child’s dusty head.

She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
a slave to Michelangelo sown from monolithic flesh.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone heard thick echoes after knocking on her walls.

She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
obey, accept, smile, and reconcile.
Her humble nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she blew down her walls
and offered them up like shards of glass.

In the casket of rubble she lay underneath
with the baggage of inheritance shadowing overhead,
without a pair of ears or eyes or a mouth.
Her box was hollow after all.
"Oh, she of little faith," everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every child a happy ending.

(an ode to Marge Piercy)