Category: Being Female

Getting the Picture

The writer apologizes to the women.

He thinks we don’t get the picture.

We sit next to you in class, discussing

linguistic properties or logical fallacies,

without seeing this curve of muscle or that cheekbone;

without imagining your long thigh, hard and haired over;

without watching your penis uncurl and plump in our palms

like warm dough,

your gaze softening with pleasure;

without feeling your fingers slide

into the sides of our mouths;

without tensing our tongues

as if licking the last salty drops of you.

Well we do.

We just don’t know how to talk about it.

One Earring Left

I came home without the other last night.

Gone.  Fallen off after twenty years of wear,

bought when being free was new,

after a lunch with wine,

a silver crane with wings spread.

The moon framed herself in the center pane

of my bedroom window.

She may have known where my crane was

but was content to stare dumbly

as I lay alone with his fingerprints still on me.

By morning light everything has flown.

I shower and hang the earring

with the other mateless ones.

I Don’t Want to be Her, to the End

A bright cake for me to deliver on a rainy day,

pinks and purples as requested,

reading:  Happy Birthday, Dorothy!

The baker asks me which birthday is it?

She’s 98 and in hospice.

I resist the temptation to say, “Her last.”

Her daughter keeps me waiting in the foyer

of the 60’s modern apartment building

with its kidney coffee tables and satellite chandeliers.

Her mouth twists as she takes the cake,

I’m sorry if she’s been a pain in the ass.

Not to me, I’m just delivering cake,

I grin, having been a daughter myself.

 

 

The Sisters

The idiot sisters who live in my attic

are keeping me awake again; I need some rest.

They dress themselves in lengths of fabric, pretend

they are in gowns, capes, boas, and tromp around

to some new play they’ve written.  In the midst of this

romance one of them will remember some old imagined slight

and throw herself down, wracked with sobs on the the threadbare

horsehair sofa, which reminds the others of the play,

causing the lot of them to shriek in excruciating delight.

To shut them up I bring them gifts of cupcakes, candies,

plates of cheeses, and bowls of potatoes, over which they coo

for a while.

Then the fair one wants to save some for later,

the dark one wants to give some away to the poor,

the redhead wants to eat it all now, and they’re into another awful row.

I even taught them to smoke, a quiet, peaceful hobby.

They prefer cherry cigars, puffing on them dramatically,

wearing their fedoras, pounding out mystery novels

on their old Underwood.

Anything will set them off.

I went downtown to get them evicted.  I thought I could sign

a restraining order so they would restrain themselves,

but I was told I can’t because we’re related.  Now we’re in negotiations.

I’ve hired a mediator.  On Tuesdays, when we all get together

I try to calm them down; they try to make me laugh.

Sublimation

She watches the man as he slices rare beef at his wife’s table,

balances the steel knife in his palm.

Feeling the weight and substance of her gaze returned,

her longing spools out its own story.

Leaving their home she moves carefully,

as if he were not inside her,

their musk not rising like incense,

her tongue not running against the grain of his eyebrow,

his thumbs not twinned over her nipples.

At home, awake,

quickened by the rapture of her own risen blood,

she notes each step of a fly on the down of her arm.

Don’t Read This

For god’s sake, put down the book

and do something useful.

Open a window, blow the stink off;

stir fry up some fresh vegetables,

call a friend to join you for dinner;

buy a card for someone who’s sick;

go outside and get some exercise,

you’re pale and gone to flab, look

at those thighs!; wash your kitchen floor,

it’s full of dog hair, bird seed hulls

and muddy footprints; and walk that dog,

she’s getting tired of sitting home

with nothing to do but eat the crotch

out of your old underpants; light a candle,

say a prayer for the dead, or the living,

or for yourself, somewhere in between.

Some Little Ones

Branding

Used to be what men did to animals.

What owners did to slaves.

Now embraced by the Great Society.

Our new ideal.

To be branded.

 

Over Time

Our bodies begin to obey our pleasures

in middle age.  Our laps open to receive our loves.

Our eyes dissolve the hard news into soft grey fur.

Even in sleep we weave up dreams

from the colored rags of our days

to soften our steps.

 

Road Trip

Stuck in Stuckeys with truckers starin’,

she’s on display in downtown Herrin.

Fixing a Drawer

Pull the wreckage over the runner.

Unload the corn holders, spatulas, slotted spoons,

jar opener, unclaimed keys, and a three-to-two adapter.

Take time to reminisce about

the fight you had with your ex.

Attempt to squirt glue into the slot

without pulling the drawer apart.

Pull the drawer apart the rest of the way.

Sit on the floor.  Try to cry.

Quickly pour glue into every crevice

while making a plan to sell the house and move into an apartment

as soon as you get your unemployed brother to move out

and put a couple of the dogs to sleep.

As the glue drips onto the tile,

hold the sides of the drawer together.

This will allow you to feel the particle board disintegrate.

Keep the pressure on anyway while you wipe at the drips,

coating your hands and pants with a new, swiftly stiffening skin.

This is your life.