bad boys

*This poem made possible by everyone who sent me random words to use via Instagram

The pink dish glove in the sink
is the American dream.
Lonely and listless, lifeless.
Like they want all
women’s bodies to be.

Her, an abandoned house
making warm speckled tarts
full of encouragement
for her children and
signed social contracts —
eyes slow like honey
on him while he reads the paper.

The neighborhood cat is pawing
at the front door screen.
Mangos in the bowl on the table.
This weekend, he’ll take her
to the stakehouse in the old
brick building downtown.
Talk about his job
until she drowns herself
in the candle light –
magnificent demise.
An eloquent reciting of
the instrumental madness
that sits next to her in bed.

It is all a memory collective
locking hold like the grief every
woman has carried through
decades of delights and disorders.
Missing persons.
Vandals of bodily choice.
Carrying courage on her back,
turning terrible moments
into gold somehow.

Still, she is the gatherer.
Still, she creates and overcomes.
Professional storyteller
of power lost.
Seeking out the pain directly,
standing in front of it naked.
Blocking the sun.

Her inner portal will take you
on a parade of power so fierce
the force will sonic boom you
into an orbit around her.

Toe-curling good.

She doesn’t need any
man’s kiss goodnight.