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for sale, though the chattel laws were repealed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.
