Poetry + Praise of the divine and the Feminine

Awake at Four A.M. on the Potomac

Now would be the time to craft carefully worded comebacks

designed to slice cleanly and precisely

through those snide remarks

 by the three rotund, interchangeable, red-faced

white Southern boss hogs with thin white hair.

They won’t even feel the cut

or notice the corpses of their comments until I walk away

an apparition they didn’t realize was sentient and seething

as they swapped stories of driving drunk for fun

and the local sheriff letting them go for the simple virtue of their whiteness

let them drive away

a car full of teenagers heading towards the county stock show where

they met the same same sheriff at the door

who raced ahead just to see if they could make it there in one piece.

They hitch their belts

they order another round from the two bartenders-of-color

who graciously meet their requests

which makes the rotund, interchangeable, red-faced boss hogs

think

of the freshman members of the House of Representatives.

“Those idiots” as they refer to the young, scrappy women-of-color

the ones

I want to point out

who never

drove drunk for show-offy fun

laughing at never facing the consequences.

Ouch. Burn. Good One.

In my head, I walk away with my head held high

as the boss hogs’ jowls swing low.

Instead I am rolling over and snuggling deep into the covers

safe and secure.

Free from consequences.

I really let them have it, didn’t I?

So clever, they don’t even know.


My dad is my earliest memories.

Golden Opportunity