by Abigail Kirby Conklin
Fuck me. I was supposed
to talk someone into something
this week, but I can't even convince
a regular at my coffee bar
to try something new without giving
it away. I don't seduce, I sledgehammer.
I barrel through things, places,
occasionally turning up dicks attracted
to my consistency. This I can promise:
I will always be as much
of a bull in the world's china shop
as I am now, before you have heard
the strange flat in my voice.
At first it will just be my ass,
and my violence, the way it sucks
at your ankles. Later, maybe,
it'll be my average breasts,
semi-addiction to painkillers,
full dependence upon numbness.
I feel so loud, I drown myself out.
Oh, sorry; wrong poem.
I forgot for a moment
that we weren't talking about being
women. How horrifying
is THAT? I'm a woman.
My vagina can make legal
decisions. Your dick can make
illegal decisions, and get away
with them. No, I do not trust
you. No, I never will.