by Karen Elizabeth Sharpe
All in by Karen Elizabeth Sharpe
A simple sky beams into the afternoon, 34-degree bank sign blinking overhead. I’m waiting for the light to change, mid-October, out on a corner, a thousand fingerprints on the silver signal walk button in front of me. At home the socks sit in separate piles. Your old record albums stacked separately. My winter coats in their own separate closet. We’ve always come together best in argument, our emotional forte, the dark ash of thrown books and shoes. It took hardly any time at all for us to learn the value of my body, its intonations. Its pitch. At the curb, transgressions mound in a thick paste of early snow.
by Karen Elizabeth Sharpe
I aimed to be
loved, or at least necessary.
I didn’t know
I could say no.
Pointed at my body:
This old thing? Just slipped it on.
Later, I said no
but my voice was only inside.
I had studied at the school
of the encrypted. Father’s
teasing, nameless women,
Penthouses, Playboys
under the beds, crumpled.
Mother’s slim magazine lessons
Dictating: stay skinny
keep your man happy
dinner in 30 minutes or less.
Dinner in 30 minutes. Or less
keeping your man happy.
Dictating: stay skinny
mothers. Slim magazine lessons
under the beds. Crumpled
Penthouses, Playboys
teasing. Nameless women
of the encrypted fathers.
I had studied at the school
but my voice was only inside.
Later, I said no.
This old thing. Just slipped it on,
pointed at my body.
I could say no.
I didn’t know.
Loved, or at least necessary
I aimed to be.
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