womyn on the bus

For every woman like my tita alby

Catch her any day
feet so planted,
a mascara brush coughs truth on eyelashes,
clouds of make up lift cheeks
--- making  ritual.

she’s not forgotten the power to
draw sequins and needle
making
any body a star-bed.

Was a few nights where shewasn’t edgy,
Lucky enough not to be abominable,
everyone looked her
in the eye like any girl named jenn,
any girl who liked red lipstick licking every word,
any girl who isn’t a
medical near-miss.

But she tingles neckhairs on Fridays waiting for the 72 bus.
A claim to womanhood is a careful
cross of thighs,
.                       this isn’t a lie,

Not a written
approval from the psychiatrist, no longer
considered a real disease,

            That once
                              then he
 was pulled from class
At eleven for asking all the other kids to
call her another name,
some sound that
could pick up toads high in the cattails,
confuse a baseball for a firecracker over our heads,
make a tinikling snap with the softness of hand poise,
a signature that was
a petal
and a flathead screwdriver.

a declaration that skipped stones
instead
of the mother that scorned her sickly son
without any manners,
when alpha-male Joseph in 5th grade hurdled
a good one at her eye,
You deserved it,  said the mother.

besides,
no real child hails so much proclaim
besides, how many memories like these can there be?
Not all of them feel like weapons,
right?

she tingles neckhairs on Fridays waiting for the 72 bus.
some claim to womanhood is a careful
cross of thighs,
                             this isn’t a lie.

passing western. & north ave
she looks at  a reflection and believes it.

she imagines
sequins and needle
making
any body a star-bed
making
her own rhythms
beautiful and
off-beat.