Passports
A waiting list to rescind it, plus a hefty fee,
the y’all I haven’t spoken since I left
in the choke of my throat,
the third surname I’ve worn, this one too tight,
this one loose like a flag on a windless day,
this one light as wingbeat,
my big wanting cheeks, try-anything teeth.
The American one is motivational, etchings of eagles,
buffalo, sharecroppers, a steam engine, our man
on the moon, and quotes like,
Is our world gone? We say ‘Farewell.’
Is a new world coming? We will bend it
to the hopes of man, as if the bent world
were a point of national pride.
The British one has an abstract compass on every page,
no North, South, East or West,
as if we never sailed, as if we never planted flags,
as if to pass freely
with such assistance as may be necessary
is all Her Majesty ever
requested and required of the world.
If I want to rescind them, I need another
nation to nail my name to. How else would the little girls
know how to dress me in their sticker books? How else
would the badges at the border know
whether to frighten or welcome me? Where else
would they keep track of all the maiden, married,
othered names I’ve carried?
How else would I pass freely through the world, if not:
facing forwards, looking straight at the camera
no head covering, no hair covering
no anything covering
my plain expression
mouth closed, eyes open and visible
no shadows on my face, or behind me
Pink Load
Darks, whites, brights, pinks. My kid has enough
ballet tights, gauze fairy skirts, and unicorn-adorned
everything to justify their very own load.
I imagine piling my life’s pinks on top of hers.
Leotards, scrunchies, the shorn manes of My Little Ponies,
a leather-bound Bible in the palest of shades, my initials engraved.
It would feel good to touch, this pile, with all the lingerie –
satin, chiffon, lace. It would sound like Wilson Phillips.
Circle on a calendar box, line on a wee stick, never once
sending him in for the Levonelle, packaged in pink.
The pile teeters. I want to offer it up, like potpourri.
I want a bonfire, the sky ablaze with Pantone 219c.
In the end, I set about cataloging everything –
the act itself, a kind of pink. There’s oppressive pink
and ironic pink and reclaimed pink. I can’t think
where to file breast cancer pink. At any rate,
the laundry isn’t going to wash itself.
_________________
Steph Ellen Feeney was born in Louisiana, and raised in Texas. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Poetry Review, Propel Magazine and Ink Sweat & Tears, as well as in anthologies by Fish Publishing and The Suffolk Poetry Society. She grew up in a family of fishermen, musicians and drinkers, and still dabbles in all three.
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