I am neither

a war trophy

an indulgence

nor a hobby.

Because I live in a country

where women are no longer

legal property of their husbands,

I am, as of current

unavailable for mail order

due to the radically progressive

notion, that took years decades centuries

to develop

that a human female is, as a matter

of fact, a human.

You can, for a vicarious experience

leer at me

like cheap jewelry

then, appalled, denounce me

as too ugly for your usage

when I give the implication

that I am sentient.

And of course, I must be modest

Lest my tantalizingly average looks

provoke some poor man

into committing a crime

against humanity.

I dated some glassy-eyed narcissist

a while back

in a regrettable period of youth,

who indulgently stated

that his three favorite things

in the world

were food, music

and women.

(Charmed to be a novelty)

And a privileged, modern woman like me

Shouldn’t mind being consumed

like a pain-staking meal prepared

especially for him,

Or replaced in his tri-annual rotation

like the discovery of a new favorite song.

I continue to be

a favorite

thing, as somehow in 2012

the term “feminist”

continues to be the social equivalent

of “kitten strangler.”

And because my father

can no longer sell me

for a flock of sheep,

I no longer need to be more human.