The "f" word we say with pride

to those who
spit
“feminists
burning bras
hating men
unshaved armpits
smelly
dykes”
do you really believe that is feminism,
to those who spit “I’m not a feminist” as if it’s a dirty word
who are you
we who do not burn bras but wear those that are comfortable
we who have married, or not,
have raised children, or not,
who have loved men, stayed with them,
left them or not.
we who rally for equal rights or not,
we who carry our heads high in spite of barriers,
we carry on, yes we are
feminists.

Peach Pie

 

 

raccoons hover around the

electric fence sparks jumping to

whiskers, the smell of ripe peaches

pulling them closer, a growl and

dash under the porch shrieking in

frustration calling the dogs

barking to the back door,

pushing the screen door open

they rush the raccoons

snarling at them, at each other

while the smell of peach pie

fills my kitchen and he happens

to wander in to tell me he loves

me I know his tricks.

Making Gazpacho Soup

the tomatoes are gathered from the garden,
voluptuous orange globes ribbed with sun-baked
tears barely containing the bursting flesh,
tossed into boiling water in summer heat,
she sweats over the stove, retrieving
each tomato, peeling away each blistered
skin before slicing each one into quarters,
pressing each seed from the fleshy folds
of fruit, each lip holding so many chances
for new life in the moist earth of spring.

Highland Avenue

they all knew how to ride a bike;
Tony Fiatta kicked my ball with his
pointy black shoes as he rode by,
the hiss of the escaping air followed
him down the avenue.
the others screamed down the
hill, slamming on their brakes
on the cardboard at the bottom,
sliding across the street only to
crash into the cement curbs which
recently arrived in our neighborhood.
I so wanted to learn to ride a bike
that they finally walked me up
the hill, put me on the seat and
pushed me down the hill, releasing
me after only a few yards
in their hurry to ride their bikes
again, skidding across cardboard
at the bottom of the hill where I
sat alone, wishing I could ride
a bike, too.

The Perfect Haircut

she breezed in to the restaurant,

every man turned his head to watch

her go by with her perfect haircut,

the women fingered their hair, wondering

if it wasn’t time to update

their look after all didn’t he

used to look at her the same

way his eyes now followed

the woman who just breezed

in with her perfect haircut.

Brand New Shoes

maybe my new shoes

will take me to the Moon

where I can kick up lunar dust,

leaving behind my size 7 footprints

next to Neil’s left behind so many

years ago, undisturbed but by

the many tiny micrometeoroids

lofting tiny clouds of dust;

or

across ceilings free of dog hair

and dust bunnies, of rabbit

droppings and black scuff marks.

my old red shoes alternately

trudged, danced and skipped

across the earth,

I’m ready for new

adventures.

The Best Nest

 I watched the  young

couple scout the neighborhood

looking for the best nest,

flitting here and there;

they landed on the railings

of the toy gazebo decorating

my front porch.

They looked, he tilted his

head at her; she finally approved

and the nest building began,

twig by twig, strand by strand.

The little blue gazebo swung

in the wind, but rain did not

fall on her tiny head as she sat

patiently on her three eggs.

One morning she was gone,

the three tiny eggs had

disappeared; a crow

called out from the tree

across the street, quite

pleased with himself.