when we were talking, he treated
me entirely different from last year,
he looked in my eyes
and said, “i believe–and i’m sure you do too–“,
already giving me credit for having
the right opinions, the right ideologies; this un-pretty
girl who can talk of post-modernism, intersectionality
and all the necessary college-activist
ideals. but i had the distinct sense that we
were the victorian men,
smoking our pipes in the drawing room
talking politics,
while his girlfriend sat with the ladies
in the parlor, her white hands folded over a large
hoop-skirt, her eyes politely blank.
what is the price for my
intellectualism, what is the price
for my pride?
the last pavilion 