We are the easy targets
to the men who hide behind
the thin veil of life
the men in Washington
who pretend that they care.
They do not want abortions
but they do not want us to have
birth control either.
What are our options, men?
What can we do?
Everywhere I go
I hear that they should
change the term to pro-fetus
because they don’t care about
the babies or life
and I want to scream,
it was never about babies.
Or fetuses. Or life.
Or parenting.
It was about woman.
About controlling woman
because when we do not have
control over our bodies
we do not go to graduate school
we do not run for office
we do not become the CEO.
When we do not have control
over our own bodies
we are sicker
less educated
stunted
kept down
kept in our place
kept out.
And that is the hard work
that then men in Washington do
when they bow to the patriarchy.
Ally Malinenko is the author of the poetry books The Wanting Bone, How To Be An American and Better Luck Next Year as well as the novel This Is Sarah.
He made it possible. He was formerly a fabulist.
He was faceless, but he was ugly, graceless
and he made everything disappear.
aligning
as fingers
deftly dance
on checkered
smooth plastic
disco stage
Adam’s countenance: beer cask-heavy
his eyes: glazed shallots
his smile: a split itself
Now take away the need
for moisture and the deteriorating
qualities of autumn. The veins
and stems will release as well.
Take away the release. Take
away the seasons.
When Taylor Swift was at the gym in Japan
she watched the muscled back of a man
moving up and down a heavy machine
made by other heavy machines for men.
of spontaneous human combustion,
of pictures with the Cherry Hill Mall Santa,
of a stapler after getting my wrist stuck to my teacher’s green bulletin board,
and on the tv
a drag queen
sharing her recipe
for sun tea
asks us if we want to
watch her take a break
and we take a break
Honeywell closed their Minnesota plant quietly
and the addition of warning stickers on album covers
would save the children along with D.A.R.E., Nancy
and Tipper directing the conversation, for some reason.
I read, I traveled, I, Lina, thief’s daughter, a discarded toy by the campfire
at night, my planets – burned by sparks,
burned by coincidences, in my eyelashes – stalagmites of ashes.
Because Phil Collins is for fools and old ladies.
Because the ocean’s too wide a body of water
for a commando to cross alone. Because gentlemen
never kiss and tell, and soldiers never share
their kill count. Because you teach the meaning
of words like ‘amorous’ and ‘varnish’ and ‘leave.’