A Woman's Intuition

Women are taught to trust their intuition.

Men don’t have to, because men don’t need to.

Women have to look over their shoulders,

Be afraid,

Because even though

This is a safe neighborhood,

There is still that flesh memory

Of wrongs done

Imprinted into our skin

Since the time we were born.

“Such a pretty girl.”

We have to be pretty,

But that makes us sluts.

We’re asking for it

By the way we strut,

In those shorts,

Down the sidewalk,

When the sun’s about to set.

And now we don’t answer your catcalls

So we’re bitches

And we’re whores,

Because whores are people who don’t sleep with people.

It’s a new definition, just in,

And you better agree,

Because your opinion doesn’t matter

And your voice isn’t welcome

In this discussion.

Just do as you’re told.

And even though this is the West

I still feel that tingle on my spine,

When I walk one block after dark.

I feel the Mulveyian gaze upon me,

My eyes and ears are alert,

And I’m probing the darkness

With my sixth sense.

All the while there are visions in my head

Of men jumping from bushes,

Of girls going into the fields to relieve themselves,

Raped and slaughtered.

It is our collective memory.

Our gender wears it always,

Like a yellow patch.

And if we try to fight it

We’re hysterical,

Unreasonable.

We are fragile and feeble-minded.

We haven’t a clue what we are talking about.

So now you are going to look at me and say,

I’m a feminist,

Throw that label on me like some sort of slander.

But I am female.

And until I can step outside my door

Not afraid of my own footfalls,

I am going to put these words out there,

And dream of a better world.

Midnight Bullet Train

We don't sleep here,

At the edge of dreams,

And nightmares, 

The city sprawled somewhere near

And glowing softly,

Where ideas flutter in a flurry,

Furious wing-beating, and competing,

The brain rides a bullet train

From station to station.

And in the next room...

A muffled cry

For, in the shadows

Our deepest fears lie.

They bubble to the surface,

Inky black,

And while the city sleeps,

I weep

...

And later while the sun rolls out,

I'll nap! 

Shapeshifting

The wild dogs are there,

To bite away the parts

That no longer serve me. 

Each bite frees me from myself,

Until I am just the fire of spirit.

I rise from the ashes

Of a misguided past,

As a phoenix, reborn.

I am present.

I am aware.

I am a tree,

Whose roots reach deep into the earth.

My branches stretch up tall.

My leaves brush the heavens.

My core beats in time,

With Mother Earth.

Out heartbeats are the same.

I see through her eyes,

Each living thing,

Tinted with the hue of serenity.

Each flaw,

Makes us perfect.

The North

There is an urgent calling in the middle of the night,

That the north still owns my soul.

It is like the growling of a pack of restless, wild dogs.

It plucks me from tender sleep,

To a nightmarish land

Defined by isolation and the peculiar characters

The stillness draws.

Babies cry,

Wind howls,

And we are separated

By shifting, shattering ice,

And blowing storms.

I batten down the hatches of my mind,

To weather out the worst of it.

My spirit takes on the edge of survival.

I feel the frost-bitten burn of desperation.

Children cower,

Wolves circle,

Enter in the dark of a midwinter's day.

The north holds me in its frozen jowls,

And I can never slip away.

The Jagged Chevy Waltz

Meandering in the tangled corn,
I chanced on a barn, looking so forlorn.
What happened next, before my eyes
Was startling, such a surprise!
The music of radios and dusty old horns
Echoed out among the corns,
And suddenly tires started to spin.
The barn dance was about to begin.
Such a sight had never been seen,
By me or any human being.
Old cars from abandoned fields and lots,
Filed in to start the old fox trot.
It was a strange mix of sharp turns and halts,
The jagged Chevy waltz!

Not A China Doll

I hate it

When you think

I'm fragile like a china doll

That you need to hold me tight

And shelter me from the world

So I try to be silent

So you won't worry about me

Or act like you are walking on eggshells

Then you say

You want to hear my opinions

You say you love to know what I'm thinking

So I speak

And then somehow

Between my lips and your ears

Misunderstanding occurs

And again, you try to put me on a pedestal

Your little china doll

Silent painted lips once more