A poem published in Cirque this summer. Enjoy and check them out!
With my femininity under my arm,
we hustled down the dusty
shell of a broken college town,
past the crooked props
that used to sell feed
and pens to students, where
I offered my femininity to my fiancé.
He refused it.
Passersby frowned and jeered:
The wrinkled grape thought it was
best suited for a child;
Her charge thought that I was just too old.
A fluffy pink, the doll’s dress was
–with pink bows, of course.
Blonde with pigtails, the hair was
–with tight curls, of course.
Shattered sidewalks failed
to absorb the shame,
as my femininity receded
into my ragged college jacket along
with my spent youth
and thrift store receipt,
only to allow patches of its plastic
head and feet to emerge
when I least wanted it.