Tag: feminism

Kelsey

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

For Kelsey Hoffman
DSC01558
meaning
“from the ship’s island,”
which is the one, let’s say,
that draws people in,
like the eyes of a lady,
with their fine lines
and fine-tuned vision,
which some people call
experience; that tames
wanderlust, in women,
especially, by just asking:
“Would you like to moor?”
straightforward and sure,
so unlike their main men
from the mainlaind,
who take perpetual availability
for permission to go
…radio silent…
She is tiller of victory gardens,
where grow autonomy
for her people,
who are all people,
and also vegetables
like: red peppers,
white corn,
blue hubbard squash,
or whatever color,
they ask
to be
drawn in.

What a Catch

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

DSCF7147
A woman
without legs
is like a fish
without a bicycle,
unaware that there
are cleaner ways
of moving forward,
than dragging
its belly
across the shore,
like running,
or
riding a bicycle

Emily

.Reading time 2 minutes.

This is not another one about
how I would like to kiss you,
how I forever and always,

Sincerely miss you; because
I is tired of acting, because
You is tired of passing, because

We are tired of writing poetry
that pleases the masses,
but leaves us feeling like asses,

For dishing out what is expected,
for speaking in a different voice
that sounds too akin to a whine

to belong to a prophet or pastor,
or someone in the business,
of delivering advice,
and receiving forgiveness.

This is not another confession.
This is a poem. About something.
A poem about politics or pedagogy

Or people, but not a person not
some arbitrary object of love
named You.

There may be pretty rhymes,
enjambs, and bits of tulle,
but do not be distracted.

There’s more to be desired
inside. Go ahead,
and unwrap this.

This poem does not care
if you muss up her hair,
and feels no shame

For setting it, or for wearing
a belt to accentuate her form.
That’s what [women] poets do.

We have the tools
for spinning letters
into fine language,

And are not afraid
to use them.
That’s what makes us crafty,

And crooked.
Beauty is essential to our strategy,
of getting you to pick up this thing

That, despite its gender, does not bend
to the feminine style, or other limits,
which do not exist.

There were no concessions made
for your taste, aside from that
brief mention of love,

Just because. Because

Emily is an ode, with brown hair
and brown eyes, and a mouth that
shouts sometimes;

To her lover, who also has hair
and eyes, and a mouth that gives
kisses to Emily.

Emily is neither sweet as pie,
nor humble as mashed potatoes,
but she is what I like,

And this is not about you.

Shilo

.Reading time 2 minutes.

Shilo belongs to a protected category of person,
the kind that must be managed so as to preserve
its natural condition, to appear unaffected by the
forces of nature, and the imprint of man’s work,
afforded at least five thousand acres for solitude.

At first brush, it seemed probable we’d be lovers.
She had me feeling all-American and free, shout-
singing: “Girl, this land was made for you n’ me”
and all other beasts of the Northern Nevada wild,
where the desert is high and dry and exposed, not
so low and wet and closed as where I come from.

“What brings you here, to these parts?” should be
easy — a basic exchange of creative nonfiction —
and I’ve heard that it gets better, but when you’re
queer and a woman probes for your preference of
parts, it’s imperative to leave the door open some,

So you say something like “Where I come from is
called the River Valley, green and fertile and deep,
with mountains on both sides, thrusting up toward
the sky. Your land has dimples and mounds in all
the right-familiar places; it reminds me of home.”

Shilo showed me the Playa in June, before Burners
came to boogie and burn, and we scribbled crayon-
portraits of each other, our busts against a backdrop
that could have passed for the surface of the moon.
She drew me in — in an extraterrestrial style — soft

-shelled egg of a head, floating on a band of gold
dust that was literally black (as her tip of charcoal)
but, for better symbolism, I remember in gold.

One-Track Mind

.Reading time 1 minute.

Thinking about how
sex is different, much more
different, now than it was then;
not materially — the strings still
bray, their ancient tongues still
flick the same — but structurally.

Thinking about how
to imagine being fucked from
behind, without gagging on a
principle: all sex is violence
except the kind that is saved
by a word; Mississippi means
“This doesn’t feel good to me.”

Thinking about how
this doesn’t feel good to me;
the mattress has a zipper that
rubs wrongly, reminding me
of a mouth too familiar that
is dry and uncertainly mine.

Thinking about how
often is not often enough
for someone* to masturbate
when someone is *a female.

Thinking about how
being female is a diagnosis
for dysfunction; how I come
and come and come to accept
that prescription for Prozac
in place of understanding.

Thinking about how
the whole is greater than the sum
of its parts, i.e., ❤ = you + me
or 1 + 1 = 3; how there’s no proof
that when two losers fall in love
they’ve the will to beat anything.

Thinking about how
you beat me once, and again,
not materially — but an injury
does not have to be physical
to get us thinking about how
the body works or does not.