Feminist Bedtime Stories, #3

III.

I’m not sure what clearer “KEEP OUT
GIRLS ONLY! CLUBHOUSE” sign we could have hung
better than bricking in our front door. Sole entrance
a dumb waiter conveyed up 4 stories on a pulley
of my hair, should’ve clued in
even the most oafish how we feel
about uninvited third parties.

I long ago tired of explaining: she’s not my mother
or my gram. (Or my captor,
tho I am clearly caught.) The word you want is girlfriend
partner paramour main squeeze
better half ball-and-chain reason for living
cohabitater. Capice?
And when did it become your business anyway.

My tower is not your phallic
challenge, my damseling implies
no distress. If you think I tossed you
the rope ladder of my body cos my ear’s
too tin to distinguish the timbre of my witch
wife’s voice, well—tough titty. Fact is,
she needed a better grade
of bullshit to fertilize her flowers, and your mouth seemed
just the sewer
her daisies
could use.

~ ~ ~

Thus endeth the series!
[#1 and #2, if you missed ’em earlier.]

What about you—got any fairytale(s) you’ve always itched to rewrite?

~ ~ ~

Image credits: Rapunzel Tower, sculpture and photo by Claudia McGill.
Used with permission of the artist.
Who is fantastic.
And a friend of mine.
Creator of the Stick Ladies.
And whose art blog you should most definitely be following.
Not to mention her poetry blog, too!