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revenaTo get myself into a properly gooey mood before writing up a bunch of compliments later tonight, I'm going to post a poem that I've been fiddling with since WisCon.
Meetings
(For Karen)
The first time we met, we both
Wore theory; so embarrassing
When two women wear the same gown to a party!
But feminism, that little black dress, is
One of those things that can be endlessly
Accessorized for a different look.
The Bible (me) and pornography (you)
Can seem alike from a distance, but really
They’re as different as sandals and stilettos.
With a conspiratorial, confident wink and
A whisper, you put me at ease.
“Phallologocentric,” you said, and I
Replied, “homosocial,” and we
Understood one another, and
Damn all the rest.
There were lots of meetings, after
That; soon, we had our novel
The way other couples have
A favorite café, or
A baby. And we
Shared sentences, and
Thoughts, the way others might
Share keys, or grocery bills.
But when I met you, when
You were real (you’ve always been
Real, really, but you
Understand) – when I had
Seen you, when I
Heard the words
Spoken in your own voice, terms
That I had only
Read, before – well!
How can I describe it? It was
A riot of language, and plans, and Diet Coke
Cans, and bottles,
In the foot-wells of my car, chocolate
Everywhere, and the two of us
Hand in hand and
Silver-ringed, subverting the male gaze
Of trees and aggressive kiosk vendors alike:
“Nice boobs, baby. Want to
Overthrow the patriarchy?”
That was the best meeting
Of all, and all
Too brief. A handful
Of days like water
Held in the hollow
Of my palm for a time, but
Inevitably seeking freedom between
My fingers. You slipped
Away like that, except
No ocean ever had so much
Luggage, and I have never watched,
Anxious, to be sure that a wave passed
Straight through airport security.
You left so many things behind! Your
Secret-message-writing bubblegum gun,
Leftover Greek,
A feathered mask, all
Scarlet and gold, the memory
Of your dancing, and my
Elbow at your shoulder in the dark
Theatre, subtext all over the screen.
And me,
Missing you. Yours –
Until we meet again
(And after).
Meetings
(For Karen)
The first time we met, we both
Wore theory; so embarrassing
When two women wear the same gown to a party!
But feminism, that little black dress, is
One of those things that can be endlessly
Accessorized for a different look.
The Bible (me) and pornography (you)
Can seem alike from a distance, but really
They’re as different as sandals and stilettos.
With a conspiratorial, confident wink and
A whisper, you put me at ease.
“Phallologocentric,” you said, and I
Replied, “homosocial,” and we
Understood one another, and
Damn all the rest.
There were lots of meetings, after
That; soon, we had our novel
The way other couples have
A favorite café, or
A baby. And we
Shared sentences, and
Thoughts, the way others might
Share keys, or grocery bills.
But when I met you, when
You were real (you’ve always been
Real, really, but you
Understand) – when I had
Seen you, when I
Heard the words
Spoken in your own voice, terms
That I had only
Read, before – well!
How can I describe it? It was
A riot of language, and plans, and Diet Coke
Cans, and bottles,
In the foot-wells of my car, chocolate
Everywhere, and the two of us
Hand in hand and
Silver-ringed, subverting the male gaze
Of trees and aggressive kiosk vendors alike:
“Nice boobs, baby. Want to
Overthrow the patriarchy?”
That was the best meeting
Of all, and all
Too brief. A handful
Of days like water
Held in the hollow
Of my palm for a time, but
Inevitably seeking freedom between
My fingers. You slipped
Away like that, except
No ocean ever had so much
Luggage, and I have never watched,
Anxious, to be sure that a wave passed
Straight through airport security.
You left so many things behind! Your
Secret-message-writing bubblegum gun,
Leftover Greek,
A feathered mask, all
Scarlet and gold, the memory
Of your dancing, and my
Elbow at your shoulder in the dark
Theatre, subtext all over the screen.
And me,
Missing you. Yours –
Until we meet again
(And after).
