Wednesday, March 21, 2018



Many of us have carried picket signs,
marched and chanted for over five decades,
grow weary repeatedly fighting the same battles.
Clueless, self-entitled men want to control our bodies,
dictate dress and behavior,
discount feelings, beliefs,
scoff at aspirations and plans.

President Pussy Grabber
is just another authoritarian,
narcissistic sexual predator.
His tiny hands, swollen ego
abuse our intelligence,
dismantle civil society,
unravel the rule of law
as he rapes Mother Earth.

Each morning I wake up seething,
find one more way to rebel,
recruit equally disenchanted sisters
to short circuit crushing regulations,
harness every iota of muscle to break
misogyny’s arrogant, soulless machine.

- Jennifer Lagier

A few days after the seduction
he decides to talk to me,
asks me to go to the clinic.
Make sure there is no growth,
he says.
Now I am looking up at the light.
My knees are spread and two women
sit at the foot of my table.
They carry on a lively conversation
as they work. I’m not listening.
I feel the warm light
on my newly-wakened
nether world,
and the women begin
to search inside me
as in a drawer.
I imagine them pulling things out –
bottle caps, old tires, tampons of course,
lipstick tubes, wrappers, leaves,
a shred from Seventeen magazine...
But I’m not so old, I want to protest,
I’ve barely begun my collection!
You’re fine, they tell me
and hand me a prescription
to make me bleed. Outside
it’s raining. I sit in French class
staring out at the rows
of eucalyptus dripping
in their ragged bark,
at the stream of bicycles
hissing on the wet path.
I watch him round the corner
as always at this time,
beard trimmed,
carrying his violin,
too old to be a student.
- Tamara Madison

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