Woman on subway sneers like vinegar, scowls darkly, folds her arms

A poem written in a flurry of outrage after reading an article about street harassment. A woman's body and her life are her own - she is not there for your viewing pleasure.

She has lived in too many dead houses

to forget what a skeleton

looks like from inside.

 

She has broken herself

against the hulls of ships, and

felt the sea air sting as it hits

each newly bared surface of her

crystalline form.

 

Flowers have bloomed and bent

beneath her toes,

vines twining, inching up her ankles.

Weeds have curled around the stems

of her fingers - fading into her,

merging gently - the sticky smell

of rose hips anointing every pore.

 

She is a blistering, blundering heat

that nudges its way underneath the bedclothes

and urges out the irritable in everyone.

That charred black, sunken, desolate discomfort

that lends itself

(so beautifully) to August afternoons.

 

She has read poetry - has wilted willingly

against the palm of its hand -

but she prefers the touch of wordless tunes,

the haunting thrum of certain notes

as they catalyze her body.

 

She has lived through so many sunburned centuries,

her lips are now chapped

down to agony-red.

 

Razor edges of words are all she remembers.

The world has sharpened

her teeth and tongue,

and she can’t resist biting you (will never want

to lick your skin and purr).

 

She is big, bold, bright, blunt,

intangible and solid as smoke.

 

She stares at you

with oil slick eyes,

and your words sink (like pebbles) back down your throat.

 

Do not speak, don’t try to touch her,

and do not call her ‘baby.’

 

Author's Note

Feedback on tone and structure would be great.

Reviews

[Jwakefield]

I like the tone and structure a great deal. Free verse may be free, but that usually just makes it harder to use. Great write :)