Saturday, April 2, 2016

A Month of Favorite Poetry, Day #1

I have decided to honor National Poetry Writing Month by sharing a month's worth of my favorite poetry.

Each of the poems I share will be a piece of writing that resonates with me deeply.  A piece of poetry that conveys what I feel/believe/have experienced.  Or something I agree with.  Or something that has moved me.  Sometimes I'll provide commentary if time (and inspiration) permits.  Other times I'll just share the poem.  These poems are not my own, I own no rights to them.  I just love them, adore the poets, and wish to share their work.

In addition to this, I will also be writing a poem per day for the duration of April.  You can find those posts as well.  In previous years, I have removed all but day #1 and day #30 of the 30 poems I personally write during NaPoWriMo.  I urge you to read them while they are available.  At the end of April I will remove most of them.


My poem today is by an amazing lady whose work I have adored for years.  Kim Addonizio is as brave as she is talented.  And her poem perfectly captures a feeling that resonates to me all the way into the chemical breakdown of my female genes.  Sometimes what a person wants can really be that simple (yet complicated, once you sink below surface).


What Do Women Want?

I want a red dress. 
I want it flimsy and cheap, 
I want it too tight, I want to wear it 
until someone tears it off me. 
I want it sleeveless and backless, 
this dress, so no one has to guess 
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store 
with all those keys glittering in the window, 
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old 
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers 
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly, 
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders. 
I want to walk like I’m the only 
woman on earth and I can have my pick. 
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm 
your worst fears about me, 
to show you how little I care about you 
or anything except what 
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment 
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body 
to carry me into this world, through 
the birth-cries and the love-cries too, 
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin, 
it’ll be the goddamned 
dress they bury me in.

Published in Another Chicago Magazine, also in the book Tell Me.

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