CONVENTIONAL BEAUTY IS MODERN FEMINISM'S ATLAS STONE
pluck til your eyes drip,
caterpillar brows.
put on the bra,
underwired to support your nothing;
this is the start of learning to be a Girl.
the next step is nail polish that burns your tongue,
then learn to shave;
legs, ankles, armpits.
shave everywhere
after a Girl points out your pubescent blonde mustache.
lipsynch Amanda Palmer in your room,
in front of the mirror, in solitude,
but talk pop in crowds.
tell the others
you’re an eight at twelve
not your size, but at least
not as big as you.
smile when they nod appreciatively.
liar.
pretend you get it
when they natter about boys that look like children, not lovers.
help them braid their hair in suffocating, scalp-ripping knots.
do everything a Girl knows innately
as if you do too.
you will never feel like a Girl,
but soon it’ll occur to you that
you never wanted to be.
you enjoy the bled margin,
a wonderful crisis actor:
you told them you weren’t going to fit in,
then wept when they agreed.
you are less,
more,
better,
worse, terribly worse,
and so are they.
caterpillar brows.
put on the bra,
underwired to support your nothing;
this is the start of learning to be a Girl.
the next step is nail polish that burns your tongue,
then learn to shave;
legs, ankles, armpits.
shave everywhere
after a Girl points out your pubescent blonde mustache.
lipsynch Amanda Palmer in your room,
in front of the mirror, in solitude,
but talk pop in crowds.
tell the others
you’re an eight at twelve
not your size, but at least
not as big as you.
smile when they nod appreciatively.
liar.
pretend you get it
when they natter about boys that look like children, not lovers.
help them braid their hair in suffocating, scalp-ripping knots.
do everything a Girl knows innately
as if you do too.
you will never feel like a Girl,
but soon it’ll occur to you that
you never wanted to be.
you enjoy the bled margin,
a wonderful crisis actor:
you told them you weren’t going to fit in,
then wept when they agreed.
you are less,
more,
better,
worse, terribly worse,
and so are they.
|
THE BURNING HOB
Check the doors
Check the windows
Your most magic ritual spell:
Touch the cool window with your fingertips,
Push against it then pull the handle just in case.
Towards you, up, then down - locked.
Peel the curtain back an inch and look outside,
And behold
You are now safe
From that parked Corsa,
That overturned bin,
That world under electric ochre.
Inside,
The cooker has been on for hours,
The back hob ring is red-hot and forgotten.
The sink is overflowing and
The lino will never again lie flat.
The bathroom tiles are cracked,
And the mildew has crawled from floor to ceiling.
Check the doors are locked, check the windows
You didn’t close the fridge,
You left that tap full flow.
You forgot to change the smoke alarm,
Use frayed bootleg phoned chargers,
Eat around blooming bluemold.
None of these accidents matter:
This is sanctum.
Check the doors, check the windows,
And never let anyone in.
Check the windows
Your most magic ritual spell:
Touch the cool window with your fingertips,
Push against it then pull the handle just in case.
Towards you, up, then down - locked.
Peel the curtain back an inch and look outside,
And behold
You are now safe
From that parked Corsa,
That overturned bin,
That world under electric ochre.
Inside,
The cooker has been on for hours,
The back hob ring is red-hot and forgotten.
The sink is overflowing and
The lino will never again lie flat.
The bathroom tiles are cracked,
And the mildew has crawled from floor to ceiling.
Check the doors are locked, check the windows
You didn’t close the fridge,
You left that tap full flow.
You forgot to change the smoke alarm,
Use frayed bootleg phoned chargers,
Eat around blooming bluemold.
None of these accidents matter:
This is sanctum.
Check the doors, check the windows,
And never let anyone in.