rights

what rights have we . . .
I am beginning to suspect that I am a rite of passage,
that I have no rights
but to write it in the sand
and let the salt lick it from the soil,
whoosh it over the tops of buildings and heads,
irrelevize or relativize
all that was before
that time the wide
world of Woman laid at your feet,
when you met the kind you didn't know existed.