silent, silent girls play at depression, play at deep aching wounds: as we really saw battles, as if our mothers died and our fathers went mad; as if we were raped on cement floors outside cities, men standing at the door and sharing cigarettes. but, really, these girls are too fantastic and too normal:… Continue reading poem: small chronicle of living in my head
I am Elizabeth the first, sitting in dirty bathwater with rotting teeth, rubbing my hands between my legs because there are no men: I am tired of being Virgin Queen. I am Bloody Mary, I am wailing in the antechamber, the rosary beads dancing like knocked-off heads after the ax cuts—one, two, three. Despite what… Continue reading poem: Let Them Eat Cake
little girl, in the red skirt, in the impressionist painting outside my window: the sky is thick with cocoa beans, the clouds are wild. her mother picks at the flower-dust in her hair. they have halos, they are goddesses spun out in starry nights, relics from when the world was young and girls waited… Continue reading poem: those people are like art, dead but beautiful
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… Continue reading poem: what is a woman?
she stood lazily in the shower, watching the drain grow fat with the leftover dreams that come off her like dead skin. she and her friends will go out tomorrow, and make castles out of shotglasses and then knock them over. when she was younger she walked through fields in a red raincoat amazed… Continue reading poem: midnight in the dream city
she is standing at the door, waiting. there is snow powdering down and filling his bootprints; it has been a long time. she puts her hands against her thighs, under her skirts. she watches the silent great sway of the earth. the sun is a single yellow breast, pressed hot against the sky. she puts… Continue reading poem: woman alone
i would be brilliant at being victorian, even as i would hate it but at least then the war cries of women (western, privileged women) would make sense. as it is, i am the artist looking stupidly (they say) to the wrong political direction and for me life comes before a maligned humanist choice. new… Continue reading poem: this will probably offend you (i’m not sorry)
shall i tell you of my womanhood and the unpopular things that leave me sitting alone at parties, the 1960's splashed angrily in my face, and my hands now wet with mascara tears. but i am still not going to graduate school and i still don't want my entire life boxed into a career. i… Continue reading poem: dear 2018