root root root like a baby for a breast
as I see myself squirm for approval
& how did I end up with a job where I help women
decide how they’re going to get their babies
out of their bodies
Isn’t that really bougie said the drunk man to me
& I said I guess so with a weak apologetic smile
like I need to defend what I do with my time
to some motherfucker
but of course I do feel like I need to define
what I do with my time to motherfuckers
like how I earn my money is anyone’s business
but my own but it is because being me or you or she
means having to justify anything like your crocodile
pocketbook or your red-cheeked children & how you got them,
& why. I can write thinkpieces & reload,
hoping for a chorus, but honesty is only one way out.
We’re here in the ether, effervescent in our constant reimagining
of what it means to be a person with a checkbook, a conscience,
& a sex drive. It’s harder than I thought said my friend,
like lonely bursting frustration is a new invention for our age,
head-shaking, a shame, the crazy price of stamps these days
& shoes scattered everywhere on the closet floor
when suddenly someone’s toddler bolts forth
& springs out across the yard like water from a hose with a hole,
the sharp embarrassed scream in the scramble to
gather everything, put it back, & zip.
Is anyone really interested in you
other than your mom?
You’ll never get out from under
the gas-scented ghost of Sylvia so stop
trying. Remember that your vagina
& your identification with your vagina
is your currency.
Go ahead & didact like you tap
dance. You don’t have enough
heart to grieve for everyone
so pick your cause
& start fundraising. You’re too old
for crazy-cool self-destruction but
you’ll still be seen sniffing bourbon
suggestively for the whiff
of the wild. That bit of violet
& what you can say about it.
How you can spin.