Poetry inspired by Jim Harrison and Lucie Brock-Broido

Ashlyn

As the knife pierced the flesh
She kept on cutting.
It wasn’t until she saw the blood
Mixing with the tomato juice
That she lifted her finger
And stuck it in her mouth.
She felt the blood shoot out,
Warm and wet,
It trickled down her throat,
But the finger remained numb
And unfeeling.

A similar thing had happened
When she broke her arm.
She fell down hard
And fast
But it wasn’t until people gawked
At her arm hanging limply
Off her shoulder
That she decided to give merit
To that snapping sound she had heard.

She knew she had to be careful.
But why live in fear
Of ever cut
And scrape
And bump.
So she went along her usual business
And waited for her anesthetized killer.



The Rules of Feminism

I’m not supposed to want it.
The husband.
The kids.
The white picket fence.
I know what I’m supposed to want.
The high-power career.
The long hours.
Trying to get ahead of men
To make things more equal in the world.
So sometimes when they’re not looking,
I stop and watch the kids on the playground
And iron while watching reruns
Of Desperate Housewives.
But that gets tucked away the next day
As I keep on heading toward that career,
That next degree.
To make things more equal in the world.