Wednesday, May 27, 2009
They tell me there are a million ways to be a feminist, meaning one. Meaning that I should intuit the way and concur, as with bitches. I went all the way to Cape Cod and didn't visit Salem, didn't breathe the salt air through flame of charred ribcage, the singing corpses dancing in the sticks and this just a fair imitation of Europe. We watched a vampire movie tinged in blue. The Cape was pale gray and even as I threw it round my shoulders like a depleted red-riding-hood, a bloodless fickle girl, a wolf-killer, I couldn't fly. I don't. I don't want girl power. I want to crone, careen through the stone air in a gesture that terrifies the earth, bringing weather. There are the low and lower fronts moving in, and nets stretched across the atmosphere. My words are caught, snapped back into my face like thrashing fish, like embers. My words take down my face, expose the jaw, the high cheekbone, the brow. My words eat through my lips to reveal my teeth as the visible death they have always been, since the first set was sent tumbling by the second. No regard.
Posted by kirsten at 3:28 PM