New poems by A.J. Huffman

 

Check [it] Out

 

In front of me in the check out line waits a lady

with a barcode tattooed across the back of

her neck. I restrain

physical laughter as my mind wanders over

the possibilities that could necessitate such

a thing . . .

 

Maybe she was a mail-order bride. I bet

the cashier could use her hand scan gun to check

her price (My guess: bargain basement).

 

Maybe it is her way of advertising

she’s single. Obviously,

for sale, though the chattel laws were repealed

eons ago, there is still a certain type of man (hers?) that get

off on the idea of women as property. . .

 

She adjusts her dismayed ponybun, confirming the lines are still

visible, and I try to convince myself to refrain

from asking paper or plastic? as, mentally, I bag

her head.

 

 

 

Confession of a Re[dis]covered Vagina

 

Everyone hates me

now that I'm beautiful!

 

The labia reconstruction

was an obvious success. I am

now a sleek, mean (though sadly

still man-free) machine.

Never mind. Bring on the short shorts,

the micro minis. Hell,

even the crotchless underwear.

I will put on a show.

 

I can ignore the cross-legged whispers

of the less fortunate. Those uptight

denim-coated divas in the gyno's office.

They snickered at the rustle of my bandages

for weeks. As they clenched in pity,

empathy and/or disgust. Now

they all shift (their smirks and

their skirts) -- like an awkward itch --

as I pass. Success

is a [smooth little] trick.

They cannot comprehend.

 

My mirror shows me: change.

Their mirrors show them: no chance.

 

Can't they see?

Competition breeds insanity.

Which, if used properly, can

bury desperation with a Kot[ex] of bloody hope:

 

Lights, cameras, action! (On your knees boys.

And bitches.) And don't forget to give us [both]

a great big smile.

 

 

 

Feminist Barbie

 

hocked Ken’s clothes to pay

for her breast reduction, then

she changed

her name to Gloria.

 

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