The Ladies’ Handy Book

It is often
a surprise
to find myself
housed in this
particular body,
staring down from
this set of eyes.
Can this really be
the life I am
tethered to?

When I was ten
and ugly, I would
grow up to be a
great artist, or
at least have
the pleasure
of scribbling,
and two years later
I can’t keep their
hands off me
in art class,
begging the teacher
with my eyes to
put an end to it
only to have her
eyes reply
“They scare me
too.”

I knew then,
if three seventh
grade boys could
effectively terrorize
an adult woman,
the sort of life I had
to look forward to.
I grew up aware
of my surroundings,
with the second sight
of every female

the unspoken rules
about elevators and
car parks and when to
cross the street,
safety in numbers –
God forbid we should
have a moment of
solitude somewhere
outside ourselves, where
we might begin to get
ideas and formulate
plans of escape –

oh, I grew up lucky,
managed to evade
demands of my name
and unwanted dicks
in my mouth, a fist
or rifle-butt
between my legs,
but aware
of these constant
threats through the
tasteful machinations
of Hollywood,
the risks I ran
by simply being
a hole
in need of filling.

I should be happy
I was intact enough
to sprint sobbing
to any strange house,
pleading with the monster
under my breath,
addressing him Sir and
fully prepared to beg
for my life,
a gift he suddenly
somehow had
the pleasure to grant
or withhold.

But I was spared
and now should
be grateful, glad
when a stranger
on the street
instructs me not
to lick my lips
if I know what’s
good for me, even
if I never licked them,
even if so what
if I did?

I am beside myself
with the good fortune
of my light sentence;
I was never actually
sold into slavery,
only servitude
living on the whim of
countless seventh graders
whose eyes condescend to
grant my existence for
the sole purpose of
their pleasure.