Rachael Gay
To Yoko, To Courtney
You give us women far too much credit.
Why do you believe that we have acetone running through out veins?
Not enough to stop us in our tracks, of course,
but just enough to dissolve the bonds
formed through distorted feedback.
Why does a girl you call ugly
screeching into a blustering microphone
terrify you so?
Do you fear that she is the long haired banshee of Irish myth,
come to announce the death of rock n roll
with her piercing scream?
I think that for you,
she is Eve.
Ever dooming us all to a life outside of what you call paradise,
bland and unchanging, full of cliches
But I see that she knows that there is more to this all
than this world of ignorance and seclusion.
The apple is worth it all.
You give us women far too much credit.
Why do you believe that we have acetone running through out veins?
Not enough to stop us in our tracks, of course,
but just enough to dissolve the bonds
formed through distorted feedback.
Why does a girl you call ugly
screeching into a blustering microphone
terrify you so?
Do you fear that she is the long haired banshee of Irish myth,
come to announce the death of rock n roll
with her piercing scream?
I think that for you,
she is Eve.
Ever dooming us all to a life outside of what you call paradise,
bland and unchanging, full of cliches
But I see that she knows that there is more to this all
than this world of ignorance and seclusion.
The apple is worth it all.
i rescue them from the headlines
I collect the women the media scorns like discarded dolls.
I sew them up where they’ve been ripped to shreds
and say out loud that their seams are perfect.
I hold them under my spread wings like a mother hen
sheltering her flock of chicks from the storm.
I treasure them, brush what’s left of their hair,
wipe away the running mascara that’s crusted under their eyes.
I put them to bed in a nest of discarded newspapers,
their shocking headlines blacked out.
I cast their names up in lights too bright for anyone to ever ignore.
I throw them parties,
celebrate every public and private humiliation,
every front page paparazzi photo.
I tell them we all deserve a little kindness.
I collect the women the media scorns like discarded dolls.
I sew them up where they’ve been ripped to shreds
and say out loud that their seams are perfect.
I hold them under my spread wings like a mother hen
sheltering her flock of chicks from the storm.
I treasure them, brush what’s left of their hair,
wipe away the running mascara that’s crusted under their eyes.
I put them to bed in a nest of discarded newspapers,
their shocking headlines blacked out.
I cast their names up in lights too bright for anyone to ever ignore.
I throw them parties,
celebrate every public and private humiliation,
every front page paparazzi photo.
I tell them we all deserve a little kindness.
Rachael Gay is a poet, and artist living in Fargo, North Dakota. Her work has appeared in felan, Eunoia Review, Daily Gramma,errata Magazine, Literary Orphans and The Bookends Review. More of her work and her favorite pieces can be found at witchinghourpoetry.tumblr.com.