A Plea to Romantic Man Poets

I was woken from life
At the age of thirty-two,
Calling forth mysterious sailors
Whose waves belong to the purple
Imagination of Keats and those romantics
Whose women of labyrinthine hair be
Lonely because their husbands disappear
They have visions, they say, they have poetry
These women reap loss in no meter
on the field of only shadows, no growth

I am no other kind of woman
Observe, for example, my blazer pocket
In which I carry my identity card
Imagine my hair, it’s like some vegetative
Growth from the purple ocean.
Your poetry makes me angry.
The voice of God belongs to me.
Whatever you write, it’s of no consequence.