Ode to my vagina

My vagina is a house.
Mowed on the outside.
Wide as a barn door.
Some call it a safe house
Others, a mad house.
Because it has been a home
to thirsty travellers with
Itchy feet.
Hungry and harried men.
Men with no faces.
Homeless men.

My vagina is a house
Overlooking the hills
The road is slippery.
Accessible with
rubber boots.
Beguiling!
Beautiful at night.
Some call it a haunted house.
Because it has kept the
Conflicted hostage and allowed
willow men to check their
souls at the door.

My vagina is a house
A classical ruin
Movable and ambulatory
The dwelling place of peace.
A place of worship.
Communion space.
Many have sworn to Heaven
and seen the face of God
at the peak of ecstasy.
Some call it a temple.
Because it has restored
faith to the afflicted and
ignited the fire of a love lost.

My vagina is a house
A stone house
stinking of hopelessness.
Some call it a bulwark.
A home for soldiers
to drop their bombs,
and fire shots.
Just a fortified
building for heroes
to write history.


My vagina is a house
A fancy bed and breakfast.
Where fool's gold is mined.
Some call it a hotel.
Motel, maybe?
Brimming with art inside.
White linen, and warm showers.
A place for the spoiled,
And fancy to smoke and drown.
To tickle death.
To mock purgatory.

My vagina is a house.
Mowed on the outside.
Wide as a barn door.
Known to carry countries.
A nurturer.
Life giver.
Many men have called
it home.
It has been a home
to many.
Some betrothed.
Some, like an office
revolving door.