

Fickle Eyes
Sometimes I look at my eyes and do not recognize them. They shift in color - blue, green, gray - depending on my mood. Sometimes I see a storm in them, gathering strength, quiet but urgent. Other times I see rolling fields of grass swaying in the breeze, endless possibility. When you have fickle eyes, the only thing that remains constant is the space behind them. There, your memories steer the helm of your body. Most times I cannot control the direction of the sails, so I look to the mirror, my eyes like beacons, warning of what’s to come.
A False Premise
Black mothers are
three times more likely to die in childbirth than white women
Black mothers are
five times more likely to die from pregnancy-related disorders
For black mothers,
abortion is about saving lives not ending them
A ban on abortion means
more death for black women - the rate will rise by a third
A ban on abortion means
more death for poor women,
Who seek unsafe ways to save themselves
To "die trying" becomes a gruesome reality
There is no sense of poetry here.
When women are treated merely as vessels
Criminalized, brutalized, marginalized
We cannot begin to consider the value of "lives" lost
When we do not value the ones already living
Black mothers may have abortions at higher rates
But that's not due to some moral failing
At least not on their part - this racist nation is to blame
These women, often poor, the game stacked against them
Lack access to healthcare that should be a right
As their schools teach abstinence if anything at all
If you think Black Lives Matter,
focus on the human beings here now
Instead of clumps of cells and some imagined future
The reality is they were saved
From a world that doesn't want them
This country hates women,
the black and brown ones the most.
The Great Liberal Matriarchy Honky Tonk
“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.” - Abraham Lincoln
I dedicate this diddy to honest Abe, whose moral compass may have leaned a tad closer to due north than mine. As you read, I urge you to sing aloud in the style of a knee-slappin' Honky Tonk tune. If you'd like to hear me humiliate myself, you can listen to me singing it in my bathroom here: https://voicespice.com/Player.aspx?c=p&h=37B44670&j=373839
Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllll!
If I woke up one day omnipotent
I'd smile at the good fortune sent
I'd end hunger n' cure all disease
And o'course say no more poverty
But when all the major work was done
That's when I'd get to having fun
I'd take a swig to steal my nerves
And give you just what you deserveeeeee!
(Double-time, now!)
I'd strap Ted Cruz to my own dining chair
And give him what I thought was fair
Peel back every single finger nail
Say he's spendin' all his life in jail
He'll only get one meal a day
And every bite turns someone gay
Then when he tries to rest his head
We'll read'm anti-racist books insteadddddd
I'd put some dynamite in Mt. Rushmore
Blow it up and watch the pieces soar
The air would fill with stone and dust
And I'd replace it with who we must
Ruth Bader Ginsburg, HRC
Justice Jackson, Gaga and Queen B
Angie Davis and Mother Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Plus all three members of TLC (Why not?!)
We'd start the government straight from scratch
Only women in this brand new batch
Of leaders who know how to lead
With consensus and humility
And any shouting of #notallmen
Will land you in the lions' den
Is this a figure a' speech or real?
I'll let my emotions take the wheel
'Cause ain't that what ladies do best
I'll just have to get it off my chesttttttttt (Eyes up here, honey!)
And we'd try more old Republicans
With crimes against Americans
Send McConnell to live with his own kind
On a turtle reserve oh so fine
But first we'd make him watch TV
Only hours upon hours of Broad City
'Til his cold, dead heart was filled with rage
Then we'd slap his chins and throw him in his cageeeeeeeee (Were they only okay for kids?!)
But we can't forget dear Lindsey Graham
And Brett Cavanaugh, our boofin' man
Since they're cool with rape and sex assault
And nothing's ever been their fault
We'd let the women decide their fates
To chop or chemically castrate
And force Lindsey to show his special mooooooooooles
Just kiddin' - wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole
But don't you for one minute think
That we'd forget women who stink
'Cus there's right wing ladies 'round
Marjorie Taylor Green and Blackburn take the crown
Since they wear their internalized misgoyny
Like a badge of honor on their sleeves
We'll employ them at Planned Parenthood
Until they've changed their tunes for goooooooooood
I know this song did not have a bridge
But I'm God now, so it's my prerogative
And before I enact my incel ban
I'll give the remaining highlights of my master plaaaaannnnn
I'd end police brutality
Find all stray pets a family
Make the temp forever seventy
And make college tuition free
End women's clothes size discrepancieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees
And keep Andrew Garfield just for me
(Yeehaw! Spiderman's mine!)
This Bitch Has Something to Say
"Can you provide a definition of the word woman?"
Republican Senator Marsha Blackburn from Kentucky recently asked Supreme Court Nominee Ketanji Brown Jackson to answer this question, not because she was looking for a personal answer - perhaps about the resilience and strength of women like Brown herself who rise in a patriarchal society despite its challenges - or because she suspects Jackson doesn't have a basic command of the English language, but because she was looking for a very specific answer about biology and chromosomes.
To start, we should all be able to recognize that the question itself is irrelevant in a Supreme Court confirmation hearing (much like most other Republican lines of questioning about religion and anti-racist babies), the purpose of which is to judge fitness for a life-long position on the bench. But more than that, it was a question not asked in good faith, one aiming to either A) catch Jackson in an answer that would somehow denigrate transwomen or B) get her to do exactly what she did - provide no answer - so that Republicans could froth over the mouth at it. Either way, what remained evident to me throughout those hearings is that what womanhood is most about is putting up with an exorbitant amount of bullshit. And sometimes, quite sadly, that bullshit is coming from your fellow women, whose internalized oppression endangers us all.
To be a woman is to wonder if your breasts make your shirt too tight for an interview, if you'll be able to walk home from the bar tonight alone, if you'll be heard at the doctor's office, if you'll be given the promotion even though you're pregnant, if your kids will resent you for the time you spent at work, if you're too quiet, too loud, too emotional, too aggressive, too ugly, too pretty, not enough. It is learning to exist and attempting to thrive in a world that was built for you to fail, because no matter what you do someone will notice you are trying to escape the confines of the cage built for you and they WILL have something to say about it. Your freedom makes men uncomfortable.
And yes, things are slowly changing. We can have conversations about gender as a construct, gender as performance, gender as fluid - all valid and complex assertions that deserve to be explored. But there is no erasing the experience of being a woman, which regardless of the anatomy you have, is irrevocably linked to the way you move through the world and are perceived. The treatment you receive (or are denied, if we are speaking of the reproductive health kind), the assumptions made (about your intellect, your desire, your capabilities), the tight rope you must walk that almost always requires a polite smile in the face of ignorance at best and outright sexism at worst.
Maybe to be a woman is to exist as the nexus of all these constraints and contradictions. And any moment of joy in the face of such a thing is both a triumph and act of resistance. Womanhood is war.
Writing is Risk
I can't help but cringe when I see writing prompts that ask the writer to "keep it clean." Other than certain rules around basic grammar, punctuation and spelling that help ensure ideas can be conveyed clearly across audiences (and even here, there is arguably some flexibility), writing should be untethered. Good writing exists at the place where creativity and risk intersect - if there isn't some sort of fear or discomfort at play while you contemplate sharing your writing, you're doing it wrong. It's hard to be honest with yourself, let alone the world, but that authenticity is what makes writing sing - the best songs evoke strong emotion, connect people and move us to action.
This is not to say that good writing has to be full of "fucks" - obscenity, sexuality, violence and the like all have their place insofar as they further the story or characterization and help the author to build a world or setting that feels true. Many a work has been criticized for unnecessary rape, for instance, that does little to advance the plot or characters and is used more so for shock value, often offering insight into the writer's social/political views on women more than anything else. But to box someone in from the start - to tell them to keep it clean in a world that is very much the opposite - seems like a recipe for the production of writing that is superficial and half-hearted. Give me the grime and the pain any day, to remind me I am real.
SS
Rain drops
White noise
Soft glow
Tires on pavement
In the distance
Soft, easy breaths
Light snore
Ear fur
Rubs against sheets
Sunday silence
Love Hate Relationship
I'm embarrassed
that it took me this long to realize.
All that time I looked for love from others
Because loving myself
was just too hard
Even if I felt it
- for a fleeting moment -
I couldn't be trusted
Only someone else
could tell me I was worthy
And if they left
it confirmed what I knew all along
I was
Too Much,
Not Enough,
Disgusting,
All Wrong.
I was a manipulator, a whore,
who tricked them all
into loving me.
Only now can I see clearly
That I'd been looking
for approval
almost since the beginning
For reasons,
some chemical, some not
Some examined, some left better
~ in the shadows ~
If they lied so powerfully
I could hate myself
I argue they're better
there in the dark,
where they were made.
The thing about
looking for love on the outside
Is that you lose the ability
to make it for yourself
Like when you take
too many antibiotics
And your body forgets
how to make the good bacteria
that kept you balanced and clean,
and now you're just itchy and weak.
Fortunately for me,
Even though I sustained
many cracks along the way
I managed not to fully break.
And the thing about cracks is
they may hurt
or make a thing look less perfect,
but they also let in the light
And eventually it shone bright enough
For me to see the Truth of myself
I was at the end of the line to be loved by me,
but I saved the best for last.
Waiting to Move
Art is the only thing that moves me
Even when it's tragic
I still wish I was there
A character in the story
Because beautiful, fictional pain
Makes me feel more real
The the everyday ache of the mundane
Art is the only thing that moves me
It's hard to explain to carbon copy people
That I want more than picket fences
I'd rather not be boxed in at all
Chained to my desk
By a pair of golden handcuffs
That grow tighter every year
Art is the only thing that moves me
But I am surrounded by piles
Of manufactured things
Every one of them a lie
They make me fill stiff like plastic
My Barbie feet have no toes
And I am stuck in my dreamhouse
The Fabulous Life of KMCassidy
I wake in the nude, cocooned in soft cotton sheets, roused by sunlight spilling across my eyelids; I have no need for an alarm clock. I rise when I please, with no place to be other than where I wish. I can hear the soothing sounds of the falls outside, beckoning me like a 'come hither' finger, so I rise and open the window. Just down the road, I can see the water rushing over rocks covered in emerald moss, its droplets creating tiny rainbows in the air.
I smile and let the gentle Irish mist refresh my face and neck. This is the only skincare I will ever need, as I am as soft and supple as the day I was born. I run my fingers along my jaw and take a deep, contented breath.
When my daydreaming is through, I begin to make my way to the kettle, but I can't help stopping for a glimpse in the mirror. My hair is a hundred different shades of strawberry and copper. It shines like liquid metal. I raise a sinewy arm to comb through it with my fingers, and as I reach, I notice a taught stomach and nipped waist, creating an enviable hour glass figure. My breasts sit at attention, perfectly proportioned to my petite frame like coconut snowball cakes with delicate cherries on top. I exist to be admired. I turn around, and the view from behind leaves me equally breathless. Not a dimple or mole to be found. With unspoiled porcelain skin, I am the stuff of famous paintings.
Eventually, I pull on an oversized sweater and buttery leggings out of necessity. I sip sweet, hot tea on the back porch and engross myself in my latest writing endeavor. Ever since my first novel topped the New York Times best seller list and they optioned it for an HBO series, I've been able to write full time and at my leisure, with considerable salary advances at my disposal. I guess it's true what they say - I really am the voice of my generation. Otherwise, why would they pay me so extravagantly even before pen has touched paper?
The next few hours fly by. I am in that magical zone where creativity flows so freely I have no choice but to let it out. I emerge on the other side of it in a daze, like I'd been in a pleasant hallucination outside myself looking in. I find that I am starving, so I take a break to eat warm brown bread slathered in Kerry Gold. And no matter how much I eat, I never seem to gain a pound, so I allow myself every indulgence.
As I chew, I turn on the U.S. news to see what's happening back home. An elegant Black woman in an expertly tailored white suit glides behind the podium and begins to speak. Her partner, another effortlessly gorgeous and poised woman with lovely mocha skin looks on with love and pride, so much so I swear I can feel it through the screen. I put my hand against the glass and it is warm. I can't help but swell with pride myself, knowing that America has finally become the world leader it always professed to be - capitalism dismantled, healthcare for all, pay equity among all genders and races, free college tuition, and lobbying and guns banned in totality, to name just a few of our recent achievements. I smile, as if Madam President can somehow see me through the screen, and listen closely for her plans to continue this forward momentum.
"Together, with the help of my other sisters in arms across our allied nations, we have taken the necessary action to avert climate catastrophe. Next, we set our sights on world hunger..."
Just then, I hear the door open down the hallway and am forced to turn away from the TV's warm glow. I would've been annoyed at the interruption, but one breathtaking sight has been replaced by another - my husband, critically acclaimed actor and native-born Irishman Jamie Dornan, is crossing the threshold of our front door. I probably would've married him for the way he says words like "down" - more like, "dhoyn" - alone, but it certainly does not hurt that he has a jaw so chiseled it rivals many a museum's marble busts. There's also the drown-in-me blue eyes, ever-tousled toasted caramel hair, cut six-foot frame and the fact that he sings to me every night. But, perhaps most importantly, he always brings me pastries.
·
I know I just ate, but because of my permanently youthful metabolism, I do not think twice before popping a dreamy slice of lemon pudding cake between my lips. Jamie looks at me intently while I savor - "I love to watch you delight in things" he says, before easing my fingers into his mouth to suck away the sugary remnants.
Of course, this leads to an exploration of much more than finger tips, in a session that lasts exactly the right amount of time, per usual (an ideal 28 minute ratio we have perfected) where we obviously climax together while staring into one another's eyes, mouths agape at both our own pleasure and beauty. A scene so idyllic it should be filmed. We collapse next to one another, laughing at the madness and intensity of it all, before discussing the month ahead.
As he so often does, Jamie will travel to shoot on location in Paris for his next film, and I will join him in two weeks time. Until then, I will likely have one or more of my lovers stay with me at the cottage to pass the time. I crave variety and attention, and Jamie is more than supportive of my needs, as my happiness is his foremost priority. He, of course, will remain celibate until we are reunited, because he prefers to be ravenous for me and channels all of his extra energy into his work in the interim.
I lay on his chest, listening to his strong heart beats and begin to muse on who I will have during our time apart - there's Sam (Heughan of Outlander fame) for sure, and then I absolutely must see Theo (James of Sanditon fame) before also calling on Aidan (Turner of Poldark fame) in advance of my trip to France. I will consider making them don their character clothing throughout our time together, as I am clearly in a period drama mood.
My head is awash in thoughts of them all, and soon I find myself unsurprisingly stirred. Mere ideations of this expertly assembled parade of men has made me hungry again, so I turn to Jamie for satiation. As he traces a line from clavicle to navel with his tongue, I remind myself to work female pleasure and its critical role in dismantling the patriarchy into my next Ted Talk.
Nightcrawler’s Hands
At first, a graze
Your pinkie against mine
In an elevator
As we walked to the 1 train
It felt electric but unsteady
What was it supposed to mean?
The next day you took my chin
Into your hand
Your skin was warm, but rough
You asked how I could be this pretty
Fingers wrapped around my jaw bone
Just a bit too tightly
I think I was flattered
But your stardom cast a shadow
Isn't pretty a word for little girls?
I was 23 and you were 35
My chest was tight that first night
You invited me upstairs
You'd been feeling stressed
And the director told me to help
For the show, she said
Everyone wanted to please him
So I should want that too
Your hands gripped me above the waist
Thumbs digging into my hip bones
As you breathed heavily into my ear
"I've wanted to do this for so long"
It'd only been nine days
Your hands worked their way up
Ravenous, searching for something
I wasn't sure that I could give
They seemed so large in that moment
As if they could press against my face
Smother me and make me disappear
I would've welcomed it
We met on the stage of your show
You a film actor turned Broadway star
Me an intern wanting to use my own hands
To create something new
But I keep them in my pockets now
And clench them into fists