Victoria Woodhull Learns to Speak

How odd that you prefer
Spirits talking 
over a woman alone on a stage. 
So be it. I will tell you
I am a flute 
the wind whispers through.
Listen how softly I speak:
the white rose pinned to my dress
barely trembles its petals.

My sister Tennie C. dressed as a man
seems to have forgotten what lambs wear.
I’ve made room in my dark skirt
for the voice that says, 
A woman’s legs don’t 
part at your command.
Do not, however, receive this 
as coming from me.

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