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:
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:
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.