A cabana is both an “indigenous hut”
and a “recreational structure”
and, in the context of its latter definition,
much like a vagina.
Instead of “pussy,”
now please say “cabana.”
You can’t keep the weather
out of either. You can’t
keep people out of either,
and you can’t keep people in.
Mothers want babies out,
once carrying them has become
uncomfortable, but they also
(the mothers) are crying
because they don’t want to lose
what seems to belong
inside them;
imagine if your heart
just left your body.
You might feel embarrassed
that your heart had pushed a hole
through your shirt and now everyone
can see your tits a little, but also,
how’s that heart going to make it
out there in the horrible world
without you? So many animals
would love to eat it
and so many careless motorists—
texting, reaching for something
deep in the console.
Maybe you feel zero attachment
to the heart (after all, the two of you
have never had a conversation),
but you still feel guilt when a thing
previously in your charge
leaves you and barrels
toward harm.
A vagina is safe,
which is why the most troubled people
must get inside
at any cost.
Outright crimes aside,
almost every woman
has felt rushed.
A man clamoring toward
what he perceives as safety,
like a child who becomes
violent when he just
needs sleep or juice.
The men who come so fast
once they enter a vagina—
it’s not overstimulation,
it’s relief: Thank god
I can give up
and let a little of my life leak.
But then what’s the woman saying
when she comes?
He tried to kill me
but then I came back!
(As I will every time
someone tries to kill me,
which, I imagine,
will be on the regular.)
