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a preface to the next women's revolution.
about how much i miss being in love. born on easter sunday. even when i'm smoking all the time. hialeah dirty-talk (revised). how icarus and i share consistent paths: i may be the only woman who hates sylvia plath -- i'm seventeen, melodramatic, and pissed at you (ode to miami). i've gotten used to stumbling often (or, detachment). little haiti will never be my eden. loop road (leaving behind). loop road (shooting at soda cans). my body is not my body. please god love me. the next women's revolution: because i am a sailor. the veins that line your scalp. your third chance took a week to squander. 2007 2006 2005 home |
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i may be the only woman who hates Sylvia Plath -- nor Emily Dickinson -- nor Virginia Woolf -- this de-feminates me. my feet hurt from stomping around for twelve hours, carrying plates and busing glasses, knowing that the old and lecherous tip me for my tits, that the young do so for my haircut; no. i am not just tired. i am angry, self-righteous, self-centered, and fearfully modest. i will never be stoically depressed, because sylvia -- likewise i am immasculated. to the busser and cook who have never been drunk in the parking lot with me: stop it. i am disinterested. to the dilettante at the liquor-store window: oh luddite. iterative. inasmuch as i am a feminist (in my bitterness, how can i be questioned?) sylvia, you are not a powerful woman. sylvia, the way the yellow wallpaper spins and clicks and cages, you are not a powerful woman. |