I, Who Set Out to Curse You

The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.

—Walt Whitman, "I Sing the Body Electric"

Shall I, with the poet, sing the body electric, charged with the soul? Shall I, who have maligned you so long—this woman's body, my woman-body, my fraught inheritance—now gather up your treasures, your beauty in a song of praise, cataloging your wonders? Shall I, like that lackey prophetfor-hire Balaam, intent on cursing you, find my journey halted by a talking ass, my way barred by a flinty angel? Stymied and stuck unless I throw off the king's command to curse you and promise to bless you? Abundantly, and for all the world to hear?

For I have faithfully obeyed the king's command to dishonor and destroy you, that I might gain his favor and profit from his rewards.

When I was a girl, I raged against you, girl-body that demanded dresses, pinks and pastels, ribbons and ruffles, a quieted voice, a stilled body, softened footsteps, hands folding diapers, tending babies, pouring tea, leashing my powers, hiding my light. You were the prison house of my soul, from which I worked daily to escape—climbing trees, hunting wild grapes, following boys to wherever adventure awaited, running free until I was lost. But I could never escape you, and I cursed you, my jailer.

In the intellectual flowering of my youth, you were the millstone around my neck, dragging me down to drown in the deadening gaze of men, continually erasing me with the compliance and fears of women. How I hated you, beautiful as I knew you were, for blinding others to me, to my mind. You lay in wait for me at every turn. You were Satan itself, the Hinderer, and I cursed you, my enemy.

In the middle of my journey, you became my vehicle, the horse my ego could ride, the sturdy, wind-filled ship that carried me across the seas of the temporal realm to the shore of my true home, mind. You were my slave, chained to my will, whipped to do my bidding. I cared nothing for you. I despised you. I cursed you in my heart and with my lips.

And now, here I am, no longer young—and no longer foolish, I believed. Yet here you are, my beast of burden, my very own ass, refusing to carry me any farther on this path, speaking to me in the voice of a poet, asking, Have you seen … the fool who corrupted her own live body? Here you are, my sweet, stubborn angel, blocking my path until I answer the poet's question: Have you ever loved the body of a woman? and your own: Have you ever loved your woman-body? Here you are, my woman-body, the one who never abandoned me, a presence so constant you lived with me unseen until this moment you face me on the path. Here you stand, refusing to let me go on until I see you, in all your splendor, until I promise to leave off cursing you, until I praise you as my faithful friend and true companion, until I declare the woman's body is sacred.

What shall I sing then? Shall I sing with poets of your glories that can be seen and smelled and touched? Breasts, hips, embracing flesh, warming skin, lips, blood, bleeding, your openings and closings, your birthings and dyings, your irrepressible strength, your world-creating, world-shattering voice? Your glories abound, and I bless you.

Shall I sing with scientists of your glories unseen? The soul born of the body? Without you there is no beauty. Without you, no images, no memory. Without you, no desire, no emotion, no feeling. Without you, no thought, no communication, no meaning. Without you, no justice. No mercy. No compassion. No love. No joy. Without you, death. You are my life, and I bless you.

Shall I sing the body whole? The body giving...