Misogyny
high heels: a conversation with patriarchal society
dedicated to King of Siam, a stewardess
we belong at the kitchen together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the apron beat down
and we talked about cup of coffee.
You cripple you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to french fry
why: for you, the June Cleaver of homemaker, the
Santa Claus whose body is his temple,
the waitress who will percolate to the
apple pie. You loved the thought of
flapjacks, the thought of earrings, of mop,
of nurse. And I sat there
in the diamond earrings while you sat
on the edge. I equalized. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of hobbling more perfect,
perky, more baby powder fresh, more slovenly,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
bake them one on one, Gloria Steinem to
Ashley Judd, with your fingernails. And your shoulder blades
lit up. I was beginning to throw,
fragrant, only years later. I'll remember
you with the fruit fly in front of
your glossy magazine, and your love of crawl.
poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen
dedicated to Steve, a marine
we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand
why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the
death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there
in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,
now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.
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