Napo 17, 18, and 19

 I fell behind :( 

I don't know if I'm going to be able to catch up. I've been really busy lately and stressed out. B and I are going to travel home, but it's a bad time in the semester for such trips. Then the landlord says they're coming to inspect the apartment, so it needs some last minute cleaning at this inopportune time. Writing, unfortunately, didn't take priority.

But here's what I have written:

This first one is a "sijo" about spring in Omaha. It SNOWED yesterday:

April in Omaha


Yesterday, a catalpa

lost her blossoms to the north wind


as the last snow of April

fell from the clouds. They fell like snow.


Winter blurs the line spring’s etched.

            What’s beginning? What’s ending?

And here's my rant about panties:

Panty Rant


First of all, I hate the word “panties”

As if they were made for a child.

And I hate how I feel like one sometimes

Slipping into a pair with a little bow.


And how many panties dig into the skin,

Leaving red marks on my belly behind?

How many panties hold on too tight

And leave me with a bulge above their bands?


I hate the names of panties:

Bikini, cheekini,

Boyshorts, thong,

And granny.


I hate panty commercials

On television of women

Comfortable in their own panties,

While mine bunch and ride and, in general,

Make me feel like my body

needs to be fixed.

And don’t get me started on shapewear.


And I know what you’re thinking:

You’ll say, you just haven’t found

THE ONE yet, the pair of panties

That makes you feel sexy and comfy

All at once. That NOT ALL PANTIES

Are terrible misogynist garments.


To keep searching. But yes all women

Have had at least one bad pair

That made them feel worthless

Between their skin and their blue jeans.


But when I do find a pair—

For me, they’re silky and loose,

With a soft touch,


the kind I could see myself wearing

everyday, that wash up well

and know when to give the tender skin a little space,

then I guess it makes all

the terrible panties,

and this rant worthwhile.

And lastly, a poem about driving a pick-up truck in Houston, which, yes, is a true story kinda sorta! And I have to confess, deep down, I LOVE driving a truck. But this eco-feminist would never admit such things.

 The Day I Drove a Pick-Up Truck in Houston


It’s not like me, but Alamo

Was out of compact cars.


We’ll give you this

For the same price, miss,

The agent said

and handed me the keys.


And oh—white pick-up truck

Waiting like a steed for me

To slip into the cab, become

One with it: a big Ford,

Rumbling, rumbling, rumbling,

Creating clouds of smoke.


A girl could lose herself in this—

To climb up into the cab

And for a moment, maybe

Feel like my father felt

In his old truck, looking down

On the world, a scowl on his face.


I scoot the seat up

So my feet can reach the pedals.

I raise the chair to see

Over the dashboard. I remember

The dangling cross that used to hang

From the rearview mirror,

Guiding the way for men

With rough hands and wrinkled foreheads

From too much sun.


How seductive it feels, for a moment,

My hands on the steering wheel,

Looking down at the road.


Driving one of these, I take up

A lot of space. I don’t have to think

About others. I blow smoke,

Swerve, and others move

Around me like I’m beast.


And I think that this is how it feels

To be a White man in America,


To feel the heft of privilege

Beneath me, its engine

Carrying me anywhere I need to go,

As other cars make way for me

As I blow smoke into the sky,

The sky that I believe God created

Just for me.