9/30: Dear Veet: #notbuyingit

(Backstory here)

I still vividly remember the first time I shaved my legs.

It was being granted the permission more than anything, honestly, having watched

the other girls shed their peach fuzz one by one, congratulating one another

as it happened, and me, I mean

come on.

Look at me.

They had peach fuzz but I was outgrowing most of the boys,

and of course that carried plenty along with it.  But my iron mother,

who ruled the house and my body from hairy head

to hairy toes, said no, said

I needed to keep my childhood, my innocence, a little longer.

Whatever.  Eventually she caved and who knows why

but it happened and I wrote her a thank you letter afterward

in which I described how the only thing that felt finer than my clothes

brushing against one of my new naked legs was the other leg.  I stood

in the kitchen rubbing them like some diva cricket.  I went to school

and no one said a thing.

Whatever.

Fast Forward.  And there’s angry red bumps, painful stubble, cuts and bleeding;

razor blades get dull and need replacing and I’m less pretty 

than the other girls because of my stubble, my red bumps,

my ingrowth, then someone said

try Veet.

I did.

It didn’t work.  At all.  Whatever.

When I moved to Wisconsin I quit shaving.  A girl from Arkansas

dabbed smack into winter, I mean come on.  Of course

I took what extra insulation I could get.  Then I was married

and who cares at that point, right? But after the split I was working

in the UK and my friend said

try Veet.

I did.

Different formulas in different countries?  Who knows.  Oh, it worked.

Diva cricket was back and wearing bikinis all across the Mediterranean

even taking her top off here and there, so hairless and proud and sexy

and woman and sexy and woman and hairless and proud.

Then my stems and I were back in the states again, where it didn’t work.

Again.  Whatever.

Until a woman taught me to epilate and the pain

was real

but worth it.  No hair and no stubble and it stayed gone

for weeks but when it came back it came

ingrown and I had to pick

at the bumps to get it to break through

and there were angry red bumps

again and sweet merciful fuck all I ever wanted

was a sexy, hairless, thirty four inch inseam

to outshine all the other girls because this

is what we do, right?  Our lot

as women, we change

we alter we torture we fix we improve upon

because we are broken and wrong and naturally

not

desirable and it’s so so important

that we be desired.

Whatever.

I reassessed.  Decided function was so much more important

than frivolity.  Let it all grow in, everywhere, all of it

for learning, for science, found my armpits

were a huge disappointment.  It grew in short

and sparse and only made me stinkier.  So that came back off.

My downstairs?  I keep a trim welcome mat

because I like having something that differentiates me

from a nine year old but beyond that

it’s hardwood floors baby because when company comes calling

I want to make sure no one ends up flossing, and my legs?

Well.

They’re just as Atheist Jesus made me because there is literally

no function served by getting rid of all that and red bumps

can shove off except now,

Veet,

your commercials have told me that if I have hair on my legs

I am actually an actual man.

In actuality.

That’s right.  The commercial starts with a handsome gentleman

waking up to his lover’s leg being thrown across him and he reaches

down

to rub hair.

And jumps up.

And shrieks.

And grabs for the covers because his lover is now

a man in a silk nightie apologizing, explaining,

“I just shaved yesterday.”

Bitch I ain’t shaved more years than I have, how much

of a man am I now?  Does this mean I don’t have

to be afraid in parking garages at night

any more, can I get equal pay now, can I wear

what I want to a party and drink

as much as I like and not watch the glass?  Can I cut

in line?  Take up too much space
on the train? Can I interrupt women and explain things to them

that they already know?  Can I get called on more

in class ?  Can I get promoted

more easily and without being asked

who I fucked?  Can I be 49% of the US population but 83%

of its government?  Can I choose not to have children

without being asked why?  Keep my surname without

being interrogated about it?  Get better funding

and sponsorship for sports, be angry and justified rather

than “on my period,” drive carelessly without

having it blamed on my sex, can I fuck as many partners

as I like and be applauded rather than branded?

Can I now be told by Almighty God that I deserve

to be head of my household, that no woman

may try to teach me or even speak when I’m talking?
Hey Veet?  Can I now be the same gender

as Almighty God himself?  Hey Veet --

the man who wakes up in the bed in your commercial?

His chest is hairless, his face is beardless, is that man

now a woman?  Hey Veet, let me offer you

some direct quotes from my male lovers who I began

to ask, after fucking, what they thought

about my legs:

1)      “I didn’t even notice.”  That’s from the man

who actually squatted next to my legs

as he cuffed my ankles to a spreader bar before we spent an evening

exploring boundaries together.  He was probably lying

but that night was amazing.

2)      “I just figured it was part of your whole thing

you got goin’ on.”  That man fucked me four times

in one night.

3)      “When you fuck like that, who cares?”  That’s

my personal favorite.

Which is to say, Veet,

not one of them squealed

or grabbed for the covers

or pulled away after their hands brushed

against my legs; these lanky cricket legs

have been wrapped around more heads

than it took to approve your bullshit

BADvertisement campaign and each face

is left with a smile.  Hey, Veet

your series of commercials checks so many

boxes it may as well have come straight

from the first season of Mad Men, talkin’

misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, racism --

oh yeah, there's an Asian pedicurist, too --

but WHATEVER:

I'm exercising

my VEETO.

I'm fucking perfect

just as I've grown.

I ain’t buyin’

yo shit

and no

you cain’t even

have a sample

of mine.

**drops mic, leaves stage**

listen i may be a little drunk (20&21)

because i went to a super awesome groovy slam with a super awesome groovy after party and anyway i still managed to write two poems at the slam beforehand the first of which i used in the first round and totally managed to advance all the way to a win only using stuff from april which was extra super awesome groovy because it was the last one of this scene's slam until theydono when because they're gonna try to rework the running of it and they're gonna see how it turns out anyway the first one was this one:

statement of purpose:
the fact of the matter is simply this:
i have got to stop fighting my destiny.
i've been groomed for service since birth
my hostess mother continuously creating events
     dinners, parties, dinner parties,
     this serving dish with that utensil,
     the theme, the wine, the gifts
through to volunteering - the animal shelter,
     the pet therapy with people in rehab,
     the teaching Spanish to homeless kids,
     the activism the feminism the antiracism
     the working in a job whose title is literally
          SERVER
it's ridiculous it took me this long to commit
so okay sign me up, here i am, committing
     supplicating - accept me to your program
     this service is my purpose
     i'm proposing we partner - take me, teach me, mold me to the cause
but first you're demanding i state mu purpose.
so here it is:
     i am here to be a queer woman who through those lenses
          sees farther, sees more, sees
          my whiteness, my able body, my cis gender
          and privilege is a fucking real thing, y'all.
     i am here to intersect, i am here to connect,
     i am here to learn and listen and respect
     i am here to change, create, within and without
     i am doing this because the more i hear about the military's response to sexual assault
          the more i need to Go Fix That
     i am here to doubt the status quo, to dream about where we can go together, i am here to be
          together
my purpose is service my purpose
     is to do what my father taught me when young
          to return things better than they were lent to me
     and this world is not mine
          and someday, sooner than i'd like
          i'ma have to return it

the other one was a haiku and i am not ashamed of that now i am caught up until today when i need to scribble out another at some point also i am very impressed with all the typos i've managed to correct thus far i am a little sauced:

you have to choose your battles, she said
okay, said i
i choose them all.

day 9 pome 9 / 30: the feminist cooks

Writing this poem is a feminist act.

This poem starts in my mother's kitchen, the way she showed us to cook
from scratch, to set the table, to host, to care
for and about every person's needs.

For unrelated reasons, I had to divorce my mother.

Divorcing my mother was a feminist act.

Picture me,
5'11" broad shoulders long feet
standing tall and strong and proud
barefoot in my kitchen at home.

Because damnit, that's how I like to be.

I still cook from scratch.
You want soup?  Let me get some bones
and roast them for stock.  Ravioli?
I'll get the pasta mold and roll dough.
Moussaka?  Don't even threaten me
with a good time.

I like the food you got to put your love into
for it to come out right, I'm about that
cook all day type shit, the kind of recipes
that leave your whole kitchen covered
in trails of flour kisses.

And while there may never be
pitter patters of smaller bare feet tugging
at my apron strings,
I do still have apron strings.
My grandmother's green checkered apron
is my habit, my holy robe.

My grandmother was not a feminist.
My grandmother was a racist.
Speaking this truth about her is a feminist act.
I thank goodness she died
before I realized I was queer.

My grandmother wasn't even as open minded
as those people who say, "Oh, I believe in equality,
but I'm not a feminist."
"Oh, I can't be a feminist, I don't hate men."

Definitions are fucking hard, y'all.

Define love.  Define orange.  Define space.
Define feminist.

Dame Rebecca West said:
"I myself have never been able to find out what feminism is; I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat or a prostitute."

My man gets hungry, y'all.
And I show my love through food.
He's having a tough week, I'll pack lunches to go in the nighttime,
leave them on display in the fridge,
pizzadillas, chicken salad wraps, sandwiches
that would make Dogwood cry, mother fucking
fruit roll ups, y'all.

Feminism, to me, means doing what the fuck I want
how the fuck I want
when the fuck I want
and may any preconceived notions about what it means in relation to my gender
fuck themselves right off.
Feminism means caring for others, too.  Others' needs, others' rights.

And when I stand up here tonight and say goddamnit, yes,
I cook from scratch for my man barefoot in my kitchen,
because I choose to,
because I love to,
goddamnit,
that's a feminist act.

Exercises in Honesty

1.
I only make a promise if I know
I can keep it. Put another way, I never
make a promise I'm not sure I can keep.
Promises

aren't always words. Sometimes they're sighs,
glances that linger, pleading eyebrows
raised in fear, my mother's fist, fingertips
taking their lovelong time, my mother's slow-burning
whisper in public, each barometric syllable a portent
of things to come.

2.
The first time my sister walked in on my parents,
I refused.
Cuddling, canoodling, that's all, kissing, playing, that's all, how
can I love anyone if I can't love the woman
who birthed me, how can my father
love me if he loves a woman who burns me
how can my partner love me if all
I know how to do is burn?

3.
Fire isn't the only thing that burns.
My mother's hands, my mother's voice was a burning my love
for him is a burning, acid
burns too, these things don't burn
like fire. Acid touches
and takes hold, moves in, spreads out, consumes
in such a way that nothing
was ever there, leaves scars,
leaves melted, leaves raw, leaves.

4.
This isn't supposed to be another poem about my mother.

5.
I want nothing more than to stand
somewhere sacred-
a courthouse, a chapel, a childhood backyard-
to hold his hand, grip his gaze and say,
i promise. i promise. i do.
But what if some acid
slips out accidental?
It isn't polite to burn guests.

6.
I lose
my shit
if someone touches my head.
I never knew why
til somebody asked me, "Did someone
hurt you there?" and i'm two years old, 

six, eleven, fifteen, laid out
on my parents' bed, my stubborn curls
draped over the edge as she claws
the brush through trying
to square peg my round hole straight.
I like for my lover to pull my hair.

7.
In my dreams my fist is a brick and her face
is pudding, layered, vanilla opens to strawberry,
a slapthump symphony, sweet and wet, I like for my lover
to slap me sometimes.

8.
Our bodies promise, too,
without using voices,
knot themselves around other bodies, other hearts.
When I rest my head on his chest I can hear
his heart opening

When he wraps his cradle hands
around my head
I'm home.

9.
Sometimes I hear
her laugh claw out of

my throat.
I thirst
for acid.
But I stop.
I can not tell you
I love you
through scars.

10.
When I tell you
I love you
I want it to be
a promise.

gemini spinning

I actually asked her if she wanted to meditate.
Do you believe it? So i grabbed my sleeping bag
and we left our boyfriends behind
walked out into the trees until
they cleared themselves for us
parked the mat
under the boughs
and sat.

The most important thing to do during meditation
is to clear one’s mind of thoughts
and as soon as we did, we could hear our hearts thinking
so loudly that
it only echoed wild emotional harmonies
between our hearts in the clear sky
stars like freckles smiled at us as the moon gave us her blessing
and i leaned to kiss her.

It was a beautiful, innocent thing, the kiss,
and as we picked out constellations in the sky
we became Gemini spinning, she and i
reflected through the branches in the sky
the world
stopped
for the cosmos to spin around us.

How could i tell her i loved her
when we’d both have to go back to our boyfriends
before they noticed us gone long?

Coz we were long gone we
replaced Gemini in the sky
i found constellations in her eyes
tasted heaven in her mouth
found a rain between her thighs
while she held me there…
Her gratified sighs harmonized with the breeze
passing through the trees…
and her cornsilk hair curled around her neck.
I kissed her there, we held each other
talked little and thought long about futures and pasts
the present she gave me had me dreaming
of flying away with her
to build us a bed in the big dipper
leaving all our friends behind;
we were at a party, see, everyone camping,
but we never feared discovery.
The moon smiled at us, and though we were too young
and too attached to voice it,
she saw our love and reflected it back at us
laughed at us
"I’ve kept so many lovers safe—"
she told us
"—you are my beautiful twin daughters…"
and we were.

How many loves have you held in your hands that you let get away?
It’s a lie, when they say
that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
I knew before i had her what a star she was,
and when i had her again, later,
i let her go once more.
It’s terrible, promises we make when we’re young and younger,
too young we were both promised to others,
and we two-sided Geminis turned back to our Leo and Taurus
like so many before us
I’ve kept in contact with the moon, my mother,
i am her Virgo and she saw me through my attachment
waited for me on the other side and
helped me to see how sweet freedom can be
i’ve promised myself temporarily to celibacy
to help. me. love. me.

and if she ever comes back to me i know
the moon will smile on us again
and we’ll be Gemini spinning,
spinning
again.