Poem by Alix Olson. Just looking at the text doesn't really do it justice, but it rocks my world anyway to read it and remember her performance.
i'll teach my daughter to bang on anything
that makes a beat.
she'll shake-a-boom, she'll quake a room
she'll paint her cheeks warrior-style,
smile, beguile you—
turn you inside out til your guts plead guilty,
she'll be built like a truck,
built to work you down as she works herself up—
she'll make holes in the streets
in her ten inch spike heels,
in combat boots, stilts, on roller wheels.
she'll stroll through male pride
amazon babes at her side.
til "hey, baby"—
she'll jam between his eyes,
she'll slice between his thighs,
she'll insist on apologies
twice the size of his offense.
and for other women,
she'll relinquish her privilege, observe,
and be wise,
she'll compromise when some fire is stoked
by other women's desires,
but she'll never leave the flame.
all the same she'll crave what makes her burn.
she'll learn her cunt's good name
the thick red lips, the small pink tips,
no more of this cryptic shit,. . .
this vagina will be known.
she'll park in all the wrong places,
make faces at police cars,
find herself behind bars,
bust out big before serving her time.
fingernails full of this grime we call reality
she'll dig her way through,
pick her nose when she has to,
she'll scratch her ass,
she'll be a crass medusa child, a wild healthy fiend
she'll live in all fonts and all sizes,
curly-q's, caps and italics and bold,
she'll fold airplanes out of shredded
cosmos and mademoiselles,
and she'll pilot them to never-say-never land,
where peter pan's gay and
wendy's ok with it.
she'll wear thick braids,
she'll shave her head.
she'll eat thick breads,
she'll let her breasts flop,
she'll mop the floor like Cinderella,
then with rebellion-prowess—
she'll unionize daughters
for a higher allowance
she'll be male and female
and in-between,
she'll preen, then crack her mirror,
crack a beer,
and watch love connection.
she'll go for days without taking a shower
just to feel
unchained ivory slave power.
she'll want more than what she's "entitled" to—
she'll watch through Nike commercials,
she'll just Un Do it
ask who's making that shit
who's breaking their backs
keepin you breakin' that glass ceiling.
she'll do all of this.
and she'll do none of this.
and why can i create
this masterpiece to mask myself
funny how i hide behind this daughter.
how we hide ahead of our own herstories
scared of ourselves, of the world,
of some man who made us—
one way or another.
well this time around
i'll be bound to my own mind-womb,
in my own birthing room—
i'll squeeze out, squeeze out
each crimson thick belief,
then eat each pungent,
sweet placenta and, relieved,
i'll tear up this country's:
"welcome to the world" certificate,
tear off my father's father's
father's father's name
and legitimate my own entrance
into a thinking existence.
i'll birth myself towards resistance.
but no frantic tick-tock
of this biological clock,
on my own time
foremothers at my sides,
sisters as midwives
i'll cut my own cord, head for gender war
yes, i'll birth myself into this
drum-beating bastard child
head first, head first,
mind first, mine first.
i'll mother myself into my own
grown daughter
and i will call myself my home
grown woman.
--copyright Alix Olson
Please see my writeup about Alix Olson for my correspondence regarding permission to reproduce this work on E2. For more about this awesome writer and performer, check out http://www.alixolson.com.