Frumpy*


Her mentor referred to her as “mein mädchen,” my girl.

Or else, nicknamed her “Mutti,” or Mommy. I clarified,

derisive men.

Or else, she cultivated a resolutely boring public persona. 

Or else, the least motherly person you can imagine.

Or else, easily digested.

Or else, a hairstyle that sells convertibles. 

Or else, she doesn’t have children.

Or else, she is resolutely digestible. 

Or else, Victor Victoria.

Or else, feet running away from her mouth.

Or else, stumbling. I clarified, it was Shakespearean in its

aggression and calculation. Her route to power is lined

with the political cadavers of a dozen and a half of these

princes.

Or else, she learned to cloak her purpose in a veil of

blandness.

Or else, invisible, enough that it got done. 

Or else, my girl seems to be gender neutral in a way.

Or else, deafening whistles at a serene stump speech. 

Or else, successors could backpedal. 

Or else, unflappability is one reason she is a woman.

Or else, effective and yet not appear threatening.

Or else, they called her Mommy, but she had no children

with the chemist.

Or else, she learned to cloak in blandness. 

Or else, my girl is digested.



—————

*Italicized words quoted from “The World’s Most Powerful Woman Won’t Call Herself a Feminist,” by Susan Chira, The New York Times, 16 September 2017.




Cold-Blooded Upbringing

And, lo, she laid her head in the lap of those scorpion fields, suckled the poison milk from their Southern suburban tails, fattened and turned Chickasaw from Scottish porcelain in Oklahoma droughts. And when the wheat ripened she shook the dust from bare-bottom feet, searched for where the horned toads’ cold trails led, found no one but cats and dogs grooming themselves in radiating light filtered through chain-link fences. Pearl scars shone on their bellies, she touched her own in recognition, stretched to bursting from scorpion nursing. They hung from her ears, breasts, and wrists, battled along collarbone and waist, accompanied her on her wanderings, fearful she would go without, could not do without— Some of mother’s poison left her veins when palms, calves, sunburned shoulders first felt fur, unsure how to feel with warm-blooded creatures. She traced the clipped ears over and over again, saying, “You are home.”