Vagina: a poem

Okay peeps, so here it is. Vagina. I read aloud in Java City today, and didn't do it much justice because no matter how energetic my voice is or how much I use my hands, I become mental. You may be thinking I'm weird, entitling a poem Vagina. Well, I'll tell you that I am weird. And that most times, my feminist self comes out in my poetry. So if you don't want to read a poem not only entitled Vagina, but that talks about vaginas and other metaphors pertaining to vaginas, I say man up and read it anyway.

Vagina

is the mouth of the south,
the chest of drawers--
no--the heart of the chest
of drawers,
pump, retract,
pump, retract,
it thumps and rattles.
No, it is the gun
in the chest of drawers,
tucked beneath silk or cotton,
spinning with a fresh round,
waiting to be released,
waiting to explode
like a row of clenched teeth,
masked by lips,
sewn together with twisted veins
that loop through the flesh like vines,
pump, retract,
pumping, retracting
the blood to the source
filling around th clenched molars--
the swelling tongue,
the tongue--click,
click
click
rattle
until it bursts through the veins
with a bloody scream.