Creative | Posted by Bindu B on 02/8/2013
My Pretty Girl, My Mother, My Devika
The very first time my father bedded
you, I wailed from the insides. Of your womb, that is. I was a
woeful little egg erupting in warning calls. My father
was the somber-faced virgin with the
hemp on his breath. And as your muscles flexed in support of
his weight, the patterns of henna adorning your arms told
stories and each was more horrible than the next. Women
balance the earth between their knees. It was the first time
since you were an infant that you were not undressing
yourself, Devika; you feared you forgot your body as it
naked. Your turmeric chiffon sari fell to the floor in a heap.
You are an immaculate folder of cloth, always. Women balance
the earth between their knees. Do strangers know …
Creative | Posted by Fran H on 01/18/2013
Feminism Is Not A Word We Use In Polite Society
They wanted to be blondes, all of them, at some point in their lives.
Natural honey or not, they believed when
Marilyn cooed, old, white male screenwriters her puppeteers,
“Gentlemen prefer blondes”
the line delivered with a seductive smile,
as Norma Jean Baker, a smart brunette who loved James Joyce,
drowned in her persona, hiding her soul with peroxide and carefully exposed necklines.
They hide themselves too, trying to be socially acceptable, swallowing their opinions along with the latest
“Look like Barbie!” it promises on the box,
but Housewife Barbie, Mother Barbie, Teacher Barbie, Nurse Barbie,
traditional, safe occupations, nothing like Barbie’s
dangerous incarnations, President Barbie, Astronaut Barbie, CEO Barbie, Scientist Barbie, pushed to the sidelines, hidden under the bed, coated in dust. Nobody ever played with them …
Creative | Posted by Tiffany C on 11/2/2012
Innocence and Experience
She was all sharp angles even in earlier innocence,
Sticks and stones,
Upright stance, finely wrought
Collarbone jut, delicate vertebrae
stuck out; a recollection of one night
Sternum solid plate of bone; no one will be able to break this part of you
that she instinctively felt in reassurance
Fragile as a bird,
False pretenses in adolescence,
Inebriated lightweight who never knew the bitter taste of rejection
and instead, learned of too hasty acceptance—
Arched shoulders, hipbones widened from experience,
Her wrists smudged with bruises blooming like dandelions in grass;
abundant and careless
Her eyes, once starlight-bright, became
Precise in every action
Tousled morning-after hair
She was all sharp angles even until world remained empty,
because that night, casual, she went out with her friends to a club
Creative | Posted by Katie M on 09/21/2012
We all know I’ve given you everything,
that – as far as I’m concerned sometimes – I have nothing left.
You took it all, because I gave it. Freely, willingly, without hesitation,
you didn’t have to ask.
Sometimes you didn’t.
I’ve given you all my words,
and now I don’t have much more to say.
At least, I won’t, when I finally tell the whole big scary truth –
which, despite my best efforts, I have yet to do.
When I say that it’s all out there… Well, that’s a lie.
Some of my secrets I’m still keeping.
Some of my wounds, well, they’re still bleeding.
You cut me deep, you know, and I can still see the scars.
You said you wanted it to have always been my choice.…
Creative | Posted by Tiffany C on 05/4/2012
One Night Stand
Did she mention how I’m the girl of the moment?
Splashed across magazine cover pages like dripping acid from batteries
Radioactive toxic waste
How could you.
How could you.
Your bright blue eyes, cornflower blue—they said
He’s a gentleman and knows manners long dead
But you really weren’t; not at all what they said
Should I listen to them or the voices in my head?
Tell me this is wrong because it feels so right and I can’t think anymore
No end in sight
Your poisoned words so dark, so deep, penetrating their sickly message beneath
Smudged lipstick and weak resistance
And I’m not too sure what the truth is anymore
So when you tell your girlfriend the next day
Clock’s at 7; the minute hand set slightly off
Creative | Posted by Blue Rose on 03/30/2012
He’s inching closer ,
I’ve seen it before .
His lips ask love but his tongue says whore .
He caresses farther,
I am not there.
He kissed me back to my 8th year.
Momma just watches,
She kinda laughs.
Kevin is done so he strokes my calf.
I am defiled
I am dirt
I am handled
I am hurt
9 years later
A pawed up pet
I am not completely corrupted yet.
They can take my body,
And shatter my heart.
They can feed me lies,
And rip me apart.
They will grope every inch of me . I need it to feel whole
They will squeeze my being ,
But never molest my soul.
He’s inching closer,
I’ve seen it before.
His lips ask love but his tongue …
Creative | Posted by Emaan M on 09/23/2011
Jane had pretty poetry
And hands the size of shoes
And swirling inky look-at-me tattoos
On the trophy shelves of her skin
And Jane never thought twice about you
And nor did she digress;
Don’t help me once, just hurt me
Yet in the eyes of everyone Jane was a trailer-worthy mess.
And some sweet girls they said things about Jane
How small and suffocating cotton would stick to her skin
How a boy with dark hair and slinky eyes
Boasted about the game and the win-
Yet no one ever seemed to whisper anything poisonous about him.
Friends, teachers, the
do-gooders and world-changers
Her righteous church-community youth leader
Would always have their little snickers of Jane
And that’s what drove her from church.
And no one ever had …
Creative | Posted by Nicole T on 07/15/2011
The Dishwasher’s Daydream
The sink-washed dishes clap thunderously as you dry them
against one another, as if attempting to ignite a fire between
two friendly sticks. The result: a broken dish
or another proclamation that “This cup…plate…bowl is cracking.”
The washed skin on my hand is growing apart, like the leather on
a cow’s back, and it goes down the drain, and gets cozy with the debris
along with the blood that came from cleaning knives too quickly.
You scurry around the kitchen, telling me about your day
as you shove the dishes into their proper places. The plates go
above the larger plates, and ceramic cups go into a different cupboard
next to the other things that aren’t identical in size and shape.
And if I were a bowl, I would be …