To Dumb Girls and Misogynists Until the day I die, I will always and forever refuse to believe that any man is better than me. It doesn’t matter if he’s sold millions of books and has a successful literary career or even if he’s the Pope—I’m in every way capable of being his intellectual equal. And while you might find this a tad bit arrogant of me, (admittedly, it is) I say that whatever I can’t beat a man at on the field, I can make up for in the world of academia. Though age plays a factor in my self-declared competition, I still can’t stand when men, my age or olTo Dumb Girls and Misogynists
border linesI remember the time I asked you What the yellow lines in the road were for.border lines
You said they were traffic symbols: “The double lines mean
you aren’t allowed to pass slow cars in front of you, the dotted lines mean you can”
I doubt if I would have learned otherwise, (I was barely living then). But now I’m getting older And remember what you said. I wonder why— You’re passing me? Fast and faster and gone. the lines are two solid parallel barriers
Separating us forever. You, mother-- always ahead, moving too fast for yo
AtlantaThey say write what you know.Atlanta
Now, I know Atlanta.
I know her sensuous curves, they glow under the light of city stars.
I know her joys, frightening fortune five-hundred fantasies condescending on subtler dreams.
I've met her lovers, alight with the initial burn of passion, their flames blown out by her whims.
I know her secrets, the deep dark men that roam
the streets in search of something solid
the dirt beneath her fingernails, unnoticed, unwanted, unclean.
Somewhere the yellow bricks turn
Enigma MotherThe same year that I forgot love My mother shut doors with other men, And once, I think, I would have cried, But no...It wasn't then.Enigma Mother
Others thought they knew my name And I answered gladly, too. But all the blackish sins and shames Were hidden far from view.
The part that makes my furrowed brow Is when I realized I never knew her; not then, not now.
Enigma Mother,
Why?
Wanted: Readers
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