.; ,

" womenspeak an anthology of women's voices collected by the Women's Equity Coalition of Kalamazoo College

fall 1992

the making of poems

the reason why i do it though i fail and fail in the giving of true names is i am adam and his mother and these failures are my job.

1ucille clifton

This collection was created by many strong and beautiful women of Kalamazoo College. We celebrate and strengthen each other. She sits on her bed, staring out the window at the full moon Inside she feels a stirring, a force pushing her outward She follows her heart out to the waiting circle, into the arms of her sisters And they welcome her into their circle of light and love They dance around the altar praising the moon and her fullness, and the beauty of being a womon

Lissa R. Goldberg ?1ie :Feminist at rrwenty

They said I would outgrow this, like wanting to kill myself just to see what they'd print in the newspaper afterwards. They hoped this was just a phase like the rest, like prank phone calls, piaying chicken in cars, like dyed black hair and multiple earrings. But, no, I told them tiredly; I won't, it isn't, this longing or burning in my chest, these fireflies itching to get out for so long. This isn't some heartburn or hiccup after too much spicy food. But still they hope at least I'll ask nicely, say please, could I have some more? Another helping, another heaping spoonful of what I know you'll never dish out? You don't want something, they said: You want too much.

-Jennie Laird I had a raw and bitter childhood. I was born to the sea, and learned to loathe it Despite my enchantment of The sensual supple air That blew the harsh fragrance Of salt at me, And it's tangy flavor That coated my lips. I was the shrimper's daughter That grew up dancing on the Waves of the water without a care. My earliest memory was of Pulling open an oyster with my Bare chubby hands and sucking It down raw, I loved the feel Of it sliding down my throat. I consider that my first Sip of champagne. I wore seashells tangled In my long black hair And charmed birds out Of their own nests and onto My fingers so that they would Keep me company. I lived waiting for that one Night a week when my Father would come home and I could throw my arms about His legs and breathe in the rich Musty odor of all that he Had caught that day. I loved that man that I barely knew. I was a lonely child And the sea was the Only bed I ever knew.

Amy Hicks Jungle Queen

on the top of the jungle gym, in my solitary kingdom, i watch the moon rise. i am above you all-- the swings, the rings, the merry-go-round. i am outside of a photograph that i can never enter. i am not one who joins. i am one who watches from the outside, from the place you cannot see. i am there, and i am the ruler of the world. like my sister the moon, but i never close my eyes. when you feel the weight of a stare, but find no one there; when your neck tingles with the pressure of the unseen, that is me. i am the unseen. i am the ruler of the world. By Jessica Lee Walsh

.~ Fernando was a boy who kissed me when I was four. This other Little girl scratched my arms because of it. Fernando had bright red hair which I can still see and the scratches have long since healed. When I was six I was chased around the playground By two boys who wanted to pull my hair. My hair was long I wore it in a braid down my back. The plastic balls of my ponytail holder were clear and hard. I used the end of my braid to swing into these boys' faces. The holder made my braid hang heavy, but the sharp snap of plastic whipping against their cheeks was light and quick. I had my first boyfriend when I was twelve. He kissed me with his mouth open. His tongue was warm and tasted like old candybars. It wormed its way through my lips and it was summer. He touched my face afterwards with his sun browned hands. But I didn't call him again. One of the boys who tried to pull my hair felt me up on a plane the next summer. His hands were large and rough and rounded my curves as if they belonged to him. I did not like the way my breasts hung unfamiliar to me. I did not like the way he moved as if he owned them. When I was sixteen I fucked a boy-man at a party. The pain was quick and short between my legs the beer was sleek through my veins. And if I closed my eyes tight enough, I could believe I was in a dream that went on and on without my knowing full well about it. Now I am womyn. And he is leaving me again. Everytime I change myself for some of him now. So I remember how my hair used to be braided. I remember I would slink away after my attack tucking the end of my braid into my shirt feeling butterflies all through my body. Knowing I was strong and safe secure in my sex. Where did that go? By Melaina Maraldi

."", Nothing, nothing, (the bottomless chasm, the yawning abyss) nothing.

I'm shaking like a wet dog, to rid myself of that which I can't shake. I continue to think and live nonsense upon nonsensing. Who cares anyway in this shit world...

(but rhythm and cycles and patterns and earth mother, dirt, Lydia, chickadees derivatives, sin and eosin curves of a beautiful woman that I know and love... )

With morals lurking directly behind us, his hands rub down my back, lower, lower, to the soft curve and nestles briefly, then up again in a long sweeping sigh motion, with nonsense running between us, in mind, thought, in deed. In what we have done and what we have failed to do. And he asks his blessed father (especially the Son) to aid in his time of need, while we continue to torment each other, reaching closer to our own private hells. Our distant chaperone is ever present in eyes, smiles and restricted actions. The trinity of friendship (my rock) might rock like a shortsided stool, but it won't tip, not yet-- until a leg (one of us) breaks and crashes into a dragged out spin into nothing nothing the type of nothing everyone fears and no one explains (uselessly!!!). When all you want is meaning, and comfort, and you lie restlessly in someone's arms---Again-- searching in a kiss, or feeling, for meaning reason doubt TRAGEDY --ANYTHING--to fill the meaningless void that stretches over the homework table, and fills with fear at every pause of the pen, with every decision of activities is made and-- the moonlight somehow elvishly calls, wishing a pipe to be played. And you are ignorant, and lost in this wish, because you can't fulfill it (but always want to). You whimper at the the pause of your steps, sniffing at a cool night, spying rustling leaves, silhouetted rabbits and cherupping crickets with attitudes. Misplaced and empty, a need is born to rush to the light of your room- to people, acquaintances, classmates --ANYONE-- to talk to. Hoping to LIVE, to LIVE, to banish the feeling that the emptiness is sort of a nagging death already.

.. K Sprietzer The white goes on forever It blinds me, as though it was night Each flake hits the ground And the shield builds up stronger and stronger Stronger Around my heart Trying not to let you in But your eyes melt my barrier And I struggle and fight to stitch up my wounds before you seep into my blood If only you knew how you torment me How my insides claw and scream to keep you out

Why must your heat penetrate me? This carefully built up barrier I try so hard to keep Is slowly melting away.

Lissa R. Goldberg pCease, goa

let her hold me. let her milky breasts melt into the cool flesh of my waist, while i wrap my arms about her and hold her as if the world would end if i stopped. let me inhale the golden scent of her sparkling hair and taste her breath that dances on the night air. please. god let her hold me. she is my world and her frailty is what gives me my smile.

Amy Hicks Since cyniscism is first... (an imitaition of ee cumings "since feeling is first. ....)

Since cynicism is first who believes in the love of things only dreams forever

Wholly to be asleep to the stirring of ones heart

But This time, my body approves my brain agrees passion is steered by reason --and reason touched with passion. Don't Panic (though we're both thrown from the world we've always known) any reason I can give you is less than the glowing of your eyes that says we are for each other

Then rest, let's snuggle in each others arms, and not fear sleep

Because forever lies not in a dream and this love I think is no brief wakening

-- K Sprietzer

~ . solo perfonnanc.e that woman with her hair all gone and standing center stage thinking she had more mind than him strumming with her thimble thumb so hard trying to make a bow out of those strings and shoot it straight at cupid's ass so sure screaming in that man's spot light and smiling when they squirm cause she wasn't going down for him soft sonofabitch she sighs when they all stand and howl for her

-Virginia Lautzenheiser

hush short ushers shout the damn dog at the door rain of white jelly drips down walls he watches the water slide by her face eyes of blue sunshine that was a fine form for words wider he whispers pass the salt please and he rises the tears oh the tears clicking a switch empty clothes in the dark grow bakeblack lips and twistbutton eyes she races down stairs their soft bed talk lull her to sleep this fine time for dreams

-Virginia Lautzenheiser We whisper the word "tampon" with great care in a crowded department store.

We are afraid of diseases of babies of sexuality of love.

I remember fifth grade. The sexual education class the nurse droning on preaching to ten-year-olds about the virtues of vaginal deodorants of douching while I stole secret glances at her smoothed sculpted stifled smothered baby blue polyester crotch.

it was a Christian school nice girls don't think about sex (who cares about niceties when pumped full of estrogen...wondering, fantasizing, exploring new realms of pleasure...)

We had an overnight for somebody's 10th birthday. Memories of the crack of billiard balls strains of Amy Grant. We sat in our sleeping bags and talked about kissing, feeling-wondering excitedly how it would be.

We decided to try it. I was with my friend Jennie. We snuggled, somewhat fondling, someewhat kissing loving each other. Exploring with another little confused girl like me--it wasn't scary... Until I wouldn't accept it. It haunted me. It was wrong.

I repressed it, wouldn't think about it. Jennie's now far away. They all are. (The result of being constantly transplanted is serious lack of childhood friends. My sister doesn't believe she had a childhood... it has just been long forgotten...)

I didn't think about it again until my senior year in high school. A dark room amongst strangers during a college visit. The first words ever breathed about it, waiting tentatively for my audience's reply.

They thought it was great. An exploration of intimacy with another little girl.

On the same level. With the same insecurities. Uncertainties. Fears.

Not a boy--the fateful phallus which we weren't to touch until it was legal. Legalized Sex. Legalized Love. A contract heralding uncertain vows for the unknown beautiful chaotic unleashable Future.

I accepted my experience with pride replacing shame replacing wrong replacing vulnerability replacing Fear.

the beauty the sere~ity the sanctuary in the re-Cognition the Real-ization the liberation... of mySelf.

-- Catherine Cutcher. On'11ie Way The trunk packed and our bodies shoved in the car, We drove away, me first in darkness while the others slept Heading east, I came into the light just at the end of my first shift. We wound through the hills of Pennsylvania My new eyes searching unnew terrain listening to different voices. The bare trees gave way to blossoming Arlington, full of life I had not anticipated but welcomed and was welcomed by.

On the way to the march, walking to the site, I was engulfed by humanity diverse in its homogeneity "Lesbians for Choice," "Catholics for Choice," even my own "Students for Choice"-- We labeled ourselves to defeat the purpose of labels

They sang and spoke, the ones who knew My eyes drank in the colors and faces of the signs and people who, for that moment, all agreed. To be part of a 250,OOO-head nod!

The sun on my face answered the tingling in my body. I then understood how important I was, How important my presence, this day, My footprints along these miles of cement ''Women united will never be divided," we chanted. I believe.

Exhilarated and weary, we were facing the yawning sun. As my lids drooped, one of us asked how any Woman could not be concerned with women's issues. I stared out the window wondering, "Yeah, how?" and longed for memories of meetings they attended. The sky was extinguished and I felt forever kindled. When we got back, it was morning again. -Jessica Haney When I was a little girl the Bible taught me that God made the world in six days, and on the seventh day He rested. On the first day He called for light, on the second day He created heaven, and on the third day He separated the earth from the sea, and He made every kind of plant, and then He spread them around the earth to make it fruitful. I always thought that this was a lot of work to do in a single day, but the Bible told me that it was true and so I didn't question it.

I'm almost eighteen years old now and I've traveled to many places. I've always wondered at the variety that God was able to color the earth with between sunrise and sunset on the third day. He painted jagged mountain peaks that reach towards the heavens, endless waves of golden grain moved by the summer winds, lush forests where the rain comes every hour and where a thousand creatures co-exist, and more. The earth and her variations are so numerous that I believe God called for aid.

I believe that on the third day of creation God split the earth from the sea and brought forth the seeds with which to make the earth bloom. I believe that He began to cover the earth with those seeds, then, and that the land was a canvas on which He drew the picture of perfection. I also believe that He did not color all of this Himself, but called on his angels to help him paint.

I believe that in some places God did not paint the whole picture as He imagined it. In these places He divided up the hills and valleys into equal parts, and appointed each of his angels one part. He told them then to take the seeds that He had made and paint their tiny corner of His canvas as they chose.

Some angels chose green grasses and fruit-bearing trees, some fields of grapes or wheat. Each angel chose a different style, making every square unique. As each angel laid down their brush the darkness came, and night. Because each angel had done their share the earth was full of color, and because they had all worked so hard their master was successful.

Kimberly S. Keck My Story of History

I am not a part of you-­ I am not your rib, your fruit, your field of rich earth. I did not write the His-story books.... or the Bible. r was not there to chat with Jesus or his benevolent dad.

But which one of us was? Mary the virgin and Mary the whore. I am both to you, right? Depending on what you want, that is.

Or rshould be, I would be if I were "normal." r would be your virtuous slut, your moral tramp-- a slave to your flesh and a prisoner of your society.

But r reject and refute, I fight your will and your might. I want a part of this world, too.

I want this to be my story, not just yours.

By Jessica Lee Wlash Do not label me, or give me a title, that is not for you to decide

Do not make your calims about who I am, what I do, how I should think

Listen to me, I will listen to you

Respect me, I will respect you

We can agree to disagree.

By Sharon Locher Hearts and Motherhood

Visions of fractured pictures A mother rocking her child to sleep Strands of Brahm's lullaby heard through mind-choking sobs the color of baby blue everywhere in the hall in the sky in her eyes in the light in the flowers on her flannel nightgown. the lamp burning through the night through the cholic through the chaos through the tears drifting in through the cracks of doors of stifled conversation of lies. Now drifting into my dreams, coloring them with surreal fantasies of lives unknown.

I lived to see my lights go out My father wandering home drunk to a houseful of hungry, crying children (we devoured cold hot dogs and velveeta) To a hurt wife. Only hurt because she is in mourning for her dead husband.

He comes in and they begin to fight strangulation with a phone cord an angry crack and a spindle thrown at me. I cover my five-year-old sister as it splinters upon the hearth.

He leaves, and mama desparately calls my grandmother. scurrying to save our precious things from the beast. Throwing my toys, clothes, books into a big yellow smiley-faced toybox. We used to hide in it.

As we are moving our things, he comes in with a bearded stranger. Apathetically smoking cigarettes­ an evil, stifling, smothering odor. (In high school I was a chain-smoker. Smothering the memories.)

We lived with relatives. We visited at Christmas. They slept together one Christmas, our last Christmas as a family--we got in an accident on the way there. Foreshadowing... The next Christmas...they divorced and seventeen days later he was married to an unknown, fire-breathing seamstress.

We went to Florida. My mother... the same mother who leapt over two chain-link fences- rushing her bleeding child to the unwarranted security of Home. Who worked as a fucking secretary (because she quit college to support her man while he went to grad school--and he was the unscholarly one...) to keep her children fed to seek freedom from her parents' prison.

She went to Purgatory that fateful Christmas, and dragged us with her. I remember a shower that "wouldn'tgo off!" ...until I turned the knob. I remember seeing her gesture to the boob tube. I remember blowing eggs and not doing it right and having her scream at us. I remember bread soaked in beer, frozen swordfish, and peanut butter. I remember clutching my new bear, Newton (whose sweet face was later ripped to shreds by a jailed hound-dog...) The grandmother and the uncle came. We were "saved" by the fire department. We walked under the stars with a brainwashing preacher-he programmed us to condition what we would say to everyone Else. As we picked up beautiful shells from the beach, One had a live creature in it. Instead of throwing it back to its home, the sea, my grandmother put it in the scalding dishwasher cycle sacrificed a Iive being for the sake of a consolation trinket for her confused grandkids.

We were told that it was Pneumonia. That became a much-feared disease.

We were told it was LSD. The paranoia created as a result of the misunderstandings, the propaganda of the "Drug War".

Lies. I hate them.

Now I have pushed her away to the point that I cannot open my heart to her. The same heart which her blood once pumped through. The link to life. Hearts and Motherhood.

-- Catherine Cutcher. WHAT MY MOTHER DOESN'T KNOW

What my mother doesn't know won't hurt her, What my father doesn't know won't kill him. What everyone sees is nothing

Let's pretend it isn't there.

By Sharon Locher Isabelle died with scars on her lungs, left over from tuberculosis she never knew she had, the doctor figured. Killed millions but passed right through Izzy, just left its footprints. Lungs never were her strong point, though. Young, she had to quit the cosmetics factory. Powders in the air wouldn't let her breathe. Older, she coughed and coughed. Loud as five men, you'd hear it down the block. She was terrified that when she died, it'd be from choking. Most of her friends and sisters were gone by then, so maybe death any other way didn't sound so bad to her. Maybe death to Izzy was a chance to finally breathe freely.

Theresa Braunschneider Selections from a SIP

Izzy ana !FriendS

Isabelle never married, and maybe that's because she had so many female friends to keep her company. She didn't like living alone, but she had those friends and they sure had fun. Eight of them, including Isabelle - and, of course, Florence and Florence's sister. The EUD's, they called themselves. And Izzy would never tell what that meant. "I'll bet you think it means Eight Ugly Ducks," she'd say. Still, she'd never really tell. It was a secret those eight women kept to their graves. But they'd meet every Sunday night and play bridge - not contract, auction. Someone would bring a dessert, and Izzy \4Jould make something frozen when it was her turn. And always, always, they'd have a good time.

Tfu 910use 6y St. Mary's

When they built through the big brick house, Izzy moved next to St. Mary'S. They tried to get her out of there, too. So she promised them they could use it for a parking lot, just so they'd leave her alone.

Isabelle's back porch looked across the yard of St. Mary's school to the back porch of the convent. It was screened in, so you couldn't really see the nuns. But you know she must have been able to hear them. "Do you hear them fighting sometimes, Izzy? Do they argue loud1" But Izzy would just shake her head and frown. "Those are sisters. They don't do that." Lujane.ra

The man between her arms is whoever is on top at the moment, the winner of the latest knife fight or pistol draw, the courageous tongue flapping in the still of the challenge: I am Francisco Real. I came to find a man to teach me vision.

She's made love in all temperatures, to the swelled hot fingers of men and the cold bones of shaken boys on their last nights. She takes them, innkeeper of fear or fame, to her body her bed and they lie, waiting on Mary and morning.

For herself she doesn't believe in love - just whiskey in the belly of a horse, she says. It doesn't make the ride any smoother, only confuses the beast and wastes the grain. Besides she's never been lucky making bets or plans. The last rumble of hooves she remembers was only the police coming to take away the looted body ~. of the man with nine bloody fingers.

She bites his tight ring between her teeth on her way upstairs, her hand on some hero's leather hip, she thinks of the ritual, the riot, how many times a trophy is passed before it doesn't matter, she thinks, the dust in this bar dries my skin out, soon I won't remember even the milonga.

Michelle Murray The Wicked Dance and Thinking of the Blue inspired by "I Like to Think of Harriet Tubman" by Susan Griffin

I like to think of Pecola Breedlove. Pecola Breedlove who had blue eyes, who had a scar in her womb (that she couldn't see with her blue eyes), who had a child by her daddy, who was an uncountable, and who knew the law was for those with blue eyes. Therefore she had no use for her own black eyes, which wouldn't get her anywhere, as far as she or they were concerned. I like to think of her. I like to think of her especially when I think of the problem of abortion.

The legal answer to the problem of abortion is pictures of aborted fetuses shown to a woman wishing, and permission from her parents if she is a minor - a minor in the sense of the law not of nature. The answer is to save a child's life over the mother, who may be a child of the mind but not of the body but not in nature's green eyes.

I like to think of the Vice President and the law and him bearing his father's child, and him asking his father to abort that child. And when I think of the Vice President and the law, and the problems of abortion, I like to think of Pecola Breedlove and her blue eyes. and then sometimes I think of the Vice President and other men, men who put themselves outside of the untold ones of america's democracy, and do not know these stories and do not like to even think about these stories, but perceive to make laws without consent of these unseen people, the common people, and operate at the expense of pregnant children because of the blue eyes of our democracy that made our counterfeit government for the people, of the people (with a hidden clause, for and of the people with blue eyes).

And then occasionally I like to think of our politicians (and their blue eyes) and other men who make this democracy. Men who sit in little white houses with black fences, in the center of the city, putting everyone else outside. A little white colonel sitting inside, playing with toys and uniformed dolls, moving men in green, like chesspieces to foreign places in a foreign sand protecting black oil that only serves to empower the monstrous phallic symbol of our country, the national monument, bathed in white surrounded by a bright blue sky and telling women to reproduce responsibly. They do not want to think of the crime of innocence, this crime that affects all the untold people. I want them to think about Pecola Breedlove and remember, remember she was raped by her father more than once, and she survived she survived in her mind, finding that democracy of blue eyes, embodied in a white savior with a long white beard. But this blue was not enough, her eyes were not the bluest. Are the Vice President's the bluest? If only someone strong, with healing hands, not those of a little girl's man, Soaphead Church, But those of a tall, dark shadow, could have caressed the skin to find the blight. The skin of Pecola;s face. The skin of this country. M'Dear. Her eyes are the darkest of them all.

I like to think of M'Dear. M'Dear who carried a hickory stick, who healed with the knowledge of the] burning soul, handed down with the ages of secrecy and slavery, using a cane, not for support but as one might use a lightning rod to attract the sluggish force of disease. I like to think of her especially when I think of the problem of health in our blue democracy, in spirit and in body.

The legal answer to the problem of health in this country is money - a job, a car. Those blue eyes shine with gold in the pupil. And time to wait, the eternal delay, while the heart slowly begins to quiver. I like to think of the President and all his money, and the wart upon his nose which is more important that tuberculosis in the starving, destitute, unknown children of the ghetto. And when I think of the President and the law, and the problem of health, I like to think of M'Dear and her hickory cane.

I want them to think about M'Dear and remember remember her knowledge did not come from a legacy of blue eyes and she healed all that would beckon her call and was never handed a slip of paper while garnishing a green robe with a gold tassel upon a black cap. She brought hundreds of black eyes to life and won battles against invisible enemies speaking Latin tongues, without a Latin dictionary.

I want them to read the untold stories. I want them to think. I am tired wanting them to see, when they are blinded by the blue. I want them to think. I am tired wanting them to see, when they are blinded by the blue. I want them to feel, as I feel anger rising in the streets of every city, as I feel anger rising in the essence of the grey. I want them to· know this is not over until they open their eyes, if we have to do it for them with toothpicks. There is always a time for awakening and that time is now.

- Ashley Harris I'd like to let all you women out there know of a recent conclusion of mine. It is a very scientific conclusion (I've researched it thoroughly) and it's a very important conclusion to womankind. This is it: God is punishing us...there is no other explanation for why I feel so miserable. God must be punishing us. One morning of the month I wake up to the full force of his wrath. I'm usually doubled over in bed, in too much pain to move. I always manage to struggle out of bed and I quickly swallow one tablet of 800mg. of Motrin, hoping that it will last till lunch time. The rest of the day is living Hell, and it's almost as bad for the next three or four days. Some of you women know what I'm talking about, but then there are you dainty little ladies that never have cramps and whose flow is so light that you prance around in those Maxi thins: "for light days." Sorry honey! That don't work for me. And then there are men. Macho jocks who live by the motto "no pain, no gain." You boys don't know what pain is. My older brother used to laugh at me when I came home from school on a really bad day. He'd say to me: "I've never come home sick from school unless I was so sick that I was puking." He used to say that a girl's period couldn't be any worse than a guy getting kneed in the balls. Sorry, Jimbo. I learned the hard way that a girl's got just as many nerves in the crotch as a guy...and that pain doesn't even come close. Try multiplying it by two and prolonging it over a span of 3-5 days. That's Hell! The only problem with my conclusion is that I don't know why we're being punished. I can't think of any logical reason, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's 'cause God's male and he just wants to see us suffer.

Kimberly S. Keck Today I am filled with what it is to be a wommon And I reflect on this 'curse'

I remember the first time this happened My mother cried and said "You are a wommon now" But I did not feel like a wommon I did not even feel like a teenager My mother understood better than I

In the Bible I read about the purification rites Jewish wommin once went through At the end of their time they were considered dirty and therefore had to be cleansed Was it so long ago? I still see propaganda of this idea of being unclean Commercials with mothers and daughters talking about that not-so-fresh-feeling

And when this chapter of my life closes I only have doctors pushing Estrogen down my throat And if I am not silent if I ask 'why" or "explain" Then I can only see doctors' faces grow dim They really don't know about me About my body About what it is to be a wommon

But I know

It is Pain Blood Short Tempered And although I am wommon everyday this morning I am filled with the essential of my sex

By Rachel Trafican Sleepwalking Through the Past a phantom tap on my shoulder at midnight; i wake up in the sky are the countless stars and i feel like they are so close to me and i try to reach out and i try to touch your face, your dewey lips, your taut body, your warmth beside me once more-- like it was

before

i can grab the stars, i realize that they may seem tangible, but they are too far away from

my arms

are empty, and i want you to pull me away from the dark edge upon which i stand, ready to jump...and

i fall

asleep again, watching the stars, wondering who woke me and why do i think of you after all this time?

By Jessica Lee Walsh dreaming at that fine spine line bordering you and me little knotty bolts locked shut I crunch up my fist and swallow it whole closing my eyes while the knuckles go down with my teeth you might not think much of this crying over butterflies and blue sheep but he's humming and here I am curling around this useless fist like some deformed fin while he's trying to decide if I'd make good bait

-Virginia Lautzenheiser ~t the !RJ,aaing Party for Lori

In a house, somewhere in the Scottish countryside, I sat and allowed those pious English men talk about Anne Sexton and her use of the creative metaphor until the blood in my ears and my neck and my veins announced itself and I said Wait a minute. I know to you I'm some American girl with lots of loud opinions, but to Anne I would have been more than that, or at least. we would have called each other 'sister' and we could have taken off our shoes, lit each other's cigarettes and read this poetry out like we meant it. The professor, wearing elbow-patched corduroy, passed over me like a dish he didn't care for and explicated the next poem wearing rubber gloves, so I opened my mouth and said No. Anne was supposed to be everything to everybody but she couldn't, but she wouldn't, so she created something new, she turned passion into poetry and vocalized her pain so please, must we sit here analyzing what the poet herself never wanted to understand or will you let me take off my shoes, run my hand through my hair, and read these poems in my own woman voice? I know Anne's dead but let her breathe. I looked around scared because my heart was loud as my voice was angry but then my one womanfriend in the room looked back-she put more ice in my gin, she lit me a cigarette, and taking off her shoes she said .Open that book and let's hear it, love; just open that book and read.

-Jennie Laird You may be stronger, but I have pride. I will not let you Make ruins out of me And tum my body into A charcoaled landmine. I will survive, despite Your sly tactics to take Away the one thing I treasure I will survive, Despite the harm you bestowed upon me, And the nightmares that continue To invade my sleep in which your Face appears and ugly grimace. I will survive! For, I am a woman and I am strong.

Amy Hicks I. The light falls upon the still water a line of silver illuminination winking, staring, probing We sit on the sand warm, under our bodies fingers, lips, legs entwined on the grainy shore I feel the warm grit under my legs and I awaken and you disappear reminding me once again how alone I am

II. The silver streak is laughing now the wind is blowing and the waves appear the breeze blows my sandy bed into my hair, onto my sticky skin It is laughing at me for daring to dream I am now afraid to sleep Afraid my dreams will bring an evil, laughing moon m. Once I loved the moon, in all its beauty and splendor until it began to symbolize you the two most wondrous objects in the universe You and the moon and I-lam afraid of both Afraid of the laughing and torment and I fall into a restless and fitful sleep.

Lissa R Goldberg to tlU. 60y wlio scares tlU. sisters while you are on your knees, lettering the words: cootchie, nazi, feminist, acting out the part of a man as you learned it from a million dollar actor with a heavy gun (who seems like a nice guy on Letterman) or from a porn magazine you lifted from 7-11 (because you think women's bodies are beautiful) or from your father (who loves your mother) while you do this, the sisters are practicing to be afraid they are rubbing their hands together and humming they are laying out their bulky sweaters and sharpening the edges of their keys. boy, while you are on your knees, know this.

Michelle Murray writhing circling group of women with hoots and yawps and the steady beat of drum of pipes of leathered feet on soil earth the wind in the trees and the stars overhead blood pulse in our ears voices raised to Our Heavens chanting praising our life blood within

--K Sprietzer Moon Wish

I responded to a full moon one night, listening to the call of the night air begging to caress all-of my skin loving me even for my flaws listening to the earth the insects the wind in the leaves I felt my body match these rhythms in heart beat blood pulse

I danced with swaying hips swinging hair voicing a chant that came from deep inside my body I raised it to the heavens feeling the earth against my body the air the stars the night there were others women all women at first chanting our power praising Mother raising our voices higher and hearing in answer a deeper chant a bass a drum thumping of clodded feet and suddenly the scent the presence of men burst into the gathering entwining with the dancing