They say,
calm,
quiet,
gentle yourself.
Embody the psalmic woman
whose hands nurture and
give, give, give
in the light
that does not go out.
I brood,
sit unladylike
in the rocker that has
bred and muffled their babes.
I hunch in snapping anger,
brows slamming to hell
their contrite contriteness.
In darkness,
Listen,
you laughed at,
stared at,
pointed at,
commentated on,
walking in a world
that doesn’t make clothes to fit
your anomaly.
Wear
theirs.
Listen,
you look
eye-to-eye,
dance tip-to-toe
across the lanes of men
whenever
you choose
and lead
the ladies along,
high stepping and
flicking their skirts.
Anyone’s invited
to follow.
Pinch the stem at its thin base
and pluck.
Draw the open tube to your
smiling lips,
purse and pull.
Suck the drop of nectar
onto your tongue and swallow.
Ask your brother,
Did you get any?
as you pinch another,
first red star
flaming to the dirt,
forgotten and smoothed
under the hot rubber
of your saltwater sandal.
The next leaves you sucking
and swallowing emptiness,
makes you
an empty tube of disappointment,
called to, get in the car now.
Tuck this flower behind your ear
to trick everyone that
you are full of sweetness.
Overlooked
Chatter in the warm room
opposite our held hands,
not held over thirty years
of chattering.
In my palm,
spotted, bruised torn skin,
veined and boned
without a move
of consent, warmth, or withdrawal.
As daughter-in-law,
I hold onto the inert,
watching death
waft toward us
through the opposite room’s chatter.
First published by Eunoia Review, 2024
I am born under
the bony arch of his
white steepled fingers,
spidered on the pulpit
of smothering scriptures,
parroted and puffed past
the encroaching mustache,
above self-satisfied pats
to a jerked-up waist
of holy polyester.
I am baptized and rolled
under the descending heel
of self-righteous
white patent leather
and crunched.
Lorie Ann Grover
slipping down my thigh,
the Southern Baptist patriarchy
thrust me atop their purity pedestal.
With a glance,
they could check under my skirt,
no more than three inches
above my pubescent kneecaps.
They passed my uterus
from sweaty palm to sweaty palm,
weighing its worth and honor,
shoved it back up into place,
and stitched my vulva closed.
May hell not drip from here, they said.
I wobbled on one trembling foot
and pulled up
my slipping knee sock.
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