Stalin Smiles

I walk the streets,
Barely a person,
Let alone a woman.

It is as if ink has
Become my mask;
And note paper my veil,
My identity.

It is as if the sweat on my brow,
Is from a man's labour,
Not a woman's dance.
It is as if the swirl of my gown
Is a smithy's apron,

When I walk,
I march a soldier's march.

Somewhere in hell,
Stalin smiles.
I have become one of the

genderless proletariat.