[a poem about wonder woman. disclaimer: this is meant to be performed, not read. hopefully i’ll be able to record and post a video tonight.]
Artist, I wish you’d let me be
a bit more practical.
My hair is just too damn long
and I don’t have time to run to CVS
to pick up hair ties:
this Amazon has better things to do than
Artist, you gave me bracelets,
but they may as well be chains,
don’t they look damn good with the
golden eagle plastered across my breasts,
which, proportionally speaking, are illogical-
I’m not your Barbie doll.
I could more easily kick villainy in the ass
if I wasn’t constantly trying to cover my own:
this star-spangled leotard was made in the U.S.A.
for your viewing pleasure,
while I’m fighting the spandex for the right to even move.
You think a girl with bare legs and boots
fulfills your scrawny fantasies of what female strength must be,
but I’m no girl.
This huntress fights for freedom,
but the kind she can never find is on her own body:
denied solid shoes, a scrunchie, and something a bit more practical
than a spandex leotard plated in gold.
You tell me justice is blind, so
I don’t need to be attractive,
but you don’t think readers would be reactive
to an ugly girl fighting uglier crime:
From you drawing pros to Comic Con
it seems perfection is only aesthetic;
It doesn’t matter if I’m athletic,
No matter how well I fight it’s whatever, unless
you can almost see my ass, unless
my body is an hourglass,
and it seems
I spend more time in combat against
the injustices of your drawing board
than any enemy that oozes from your pen.
Artist, I know I serve others-
justice is no selfish cause,
and I look for no prize-
but I don’t serve you or your eyes, I’m not your lay.
I am not your pin-up princess,
Would you draw Superman this way?
And I’m not your whore,
But it seems it’s no matter
what I’m fighting for;
as long as the one dropping bombshells
is a bombshell herself.
I am only ever where I need to be.
staying in one place
for a very long time.
The echoes of me from five minutes,
an hour ago,
are still there and I know
where I’ve been:
I need to be back
at home plate
or my swing swings out of balance
and when I’m nervous
I can’t run:
my feet stop working and my legs
spin out of reach
and the ground comes closer.
Let me stay here and watch the world
until my eyes hurt
until I fall asleep.
I’ll join you in the morning, once
I find all I need
my witty remarks
or I’ll run out of things to say:
I didn’t leave just to stay quiet;
I leave to live loudly
and stay to not speak
(I say it in my head,
if there is anything to say).
I might just stay inside today.
The world will still be there in the morning,
and so will I.
[these were things I had in my head
some of them I didn’t know I had
and some I did
and pushed them aside]
I want to do all that again
I want to sit next to you in every class
at every movie
at every thing
but I don’t know if it’s just
convenience that you sit with me but
I want to fall asleep with your hand in mine
but no no no never again it won’t happen
I don’t want to call you mine
I just want to sit next to you forever
please pay attention to me
Call me when it’s warm.
Here it’s not what I’d call spring,
not yet, anyway.
I would like to hibernate
‘til the dogwoods are in bloom.
to the hand
squeezing my lungs
All I want to do is stay on the line
when I place a call.
dear Hand, I am an adult;
a phone call will not kill me.
(now i am worried a phone call will kill me;
[or possibly “woman” “young woman”]
killed in tragic phone call accident,
her anxiety let up just enough to allow her
to make the call that caused her
you squeeze because you care
squeeze more gently:
I can’t quite breathe.