Thank you to Yellow Chair Review and their Editor-in-Chief, Sarah Frances Moran, for publishing my newest poem in their "ELECTION AFTERMATH" edition. I am so very grateful for people like Ms. Moran -- fiercely creative and deeply courageous -- who understand the sacred calling of poets to use their voices to reassure others that we are "awake and listening,"* even on the darkest nights.
* quote "awake and listening" from Adrienne Rich
http://www.yellowchairreview.com/single-post/2016/11/13/Parallels-of-Grief-by-Gabrielle-Langley
Two Party Politics
How to describe the loss of a true love.
Today, I am dressed
in the loss of my country.
My face,
trapped in a mirror.
My story,
a funeral veil.
Because isn't it really
all about hell-bent determination,
about how to turn back a clock?
The Good Old Days,
that cherished past,
the tiny mind,
a glass-fronted china cabinet,
the ticking clock on Sunday,
endless television,
and every wife's most treasured fantasy:
that she was somehow elite, or special,
or even remotely attractive?
Because this is what you are entitled to
when you marry well,
isn't it?
Isn't it about politics?
And skin color?
Isn't it because he decided to trade something for sex?
It's about you
pretending you are Cinderella,
that role you can never fill.
It's about a glass slipper,
always too narrow for the swollen married foot.
It's about force feeding the rest of us
splintered antiques. It’s about the church supper,
the chicken and mashed potatoes,
the cookies and cakes,
that carb-loaded feast of the status quo.
It’s about trying to drown magic.
It’s about shackles that have no keys.
It’s about how to murder passion in favor of tradition.
It's about the Last Supper.
It's about betrayal with a kiss.
It's about making someone else carry the cross.
It's about all the mothers who forgot
to breastfeed their own spirits.
It's about the men who resent them.
It’s about people who let themselves grow fat on couches
and then blames their hormones.
It’s about someone throwing the first stone at a poet.
(Rounded up in any good witch hunt,
poets are always first to the flame.)
It's about faces turned into stone.
It's about pinched mouths that cannot sing.
It’s about the salt of the earth,
the day-to-day,
the laborer, the martyr, the person
who wouldn't be able to find the true meaning
of this poem if their life depended on it.
It's about the person who decided that their life was ruined
because your cat pissed on their floor.
It is about someone who blinded themselves with toxic chemicals.
It's about how they decide to spend the rest of the time making you pay for it.
It’s about someone who is planning to cut out your tongue
because they don’t like the sound of your prayers.
It is about that person standing over there in the corner,
the one who is trying to cut off your feet
because they cannot stand to see you dance.
--- Gabrielle Langley
* quote "awake and listening" from Adrienne Rich
http://www.yellowchairreview.com/single-post/2016/11/13/Parallels-of-Grief-by-Gabrielle-Langley
Two Party Politics
How to describe the loss of a true love.
Today, I am dressed
in the loss of my country.
My face,
trapped in a mirror.
My story,
a funeral veil.
Because isn't it really
all about hell-bent determination,
about how to turn back a clock?
The Good Old Days,
that cherished past,
the tiny mind,
a glass-fronted china cabinet,
the ticking clock on Sunday,
endless television,
and every wife's most treasured fantasy:
that she was somehow elite, or special,
or even remotely attractive?
Because this is what you are entitled to
when you marry well,
isn't it?
Isn't it about politics?
And skin color?
Isn't it because he decided to trade something for sex?
It's about you
pretending you are Cinderella,
that role you can never fill.
It's about a glass slipper,
always too narrow for the swollen married foot.
It's about force feeding the rest of us
splintered antiques. It’s about the church supper,
the chicken and mashed potatoes,
the cookies and cakes,
that carb-loaded feast of the status quo.
It’s about trying to drown magic.
It’s about shackles that have no keys.
It’s about how to murder passion in favor of tradition.
It's about the Last Supper.
It's about betrayal with a kiss.
It's about making someone else carry the cross.
It's about all the mothers who forgot
to breastfeed their own spirits.
It's about the men who resent them.
It’s about people who let themselves grow fat on couches
and then blames their hormones.
It’s about someone throwing the first stone at a poet.
(Rounded up in any good witch hunt,
poets are always first to the flame.)
It's about faces turned into stone.
It's about pinched mouths that cannot sing.
It’s about the salt of the earth,
the day-to-day,
the laborer, the martyr, the person
who wouldn't be able to find the true meaning
of this poem if their life depended on it.
It's about the person who decided that their life was ruined
because your cat pissed on their floor.
It is about someone who blinded themselves with toxic chemicals.
It's about how they decide to spend the rest of the time making you pay for it.
It’s about someone who is planning to cut out your tongue
because they don’t like the sound of your prayers.
It is about that person standing over there in the corner,
the one who is trying to cut off your feet
because they cannot stand to see you dance.
--- Gabrielle Langley