Poetry

Teacher.
What should we teach her?
Without being a seeming preacher, or a creature leeching too close
to budding womanhood – without leaning in too close,
in case we crack the perfect surface, the bloom of the womb in this new-dewed phenomenon, the flowering power that is woman staking her claim, firing up her brain
breaking free, making a new me.
What should we teach her?

Teach her to reach a place where her face is never a disgrace;
no need to brace or paint for others’ tastes
Then give her intellectual mace. If it’s a race,
give her spikes for the mud to come, the bloody threats
and unkind shouts of slut, the clouts, the doubts and endless bouts;
the touch in the huddle,
the gropes and dangerous hopes and slippery slopes of ’just a cuddle’.

Teach her to know her place. Then for god’s sake
teach her how to break out of the compliance alliance implied by the bride,
the photos of her best side,
the slow slick slide into useless old-womanhood.
Teach her how to give good hell,
to make her own shell of her personhood.
Legitimate, with rights that she will rise to fight if compromised,
and be damned with that guy’s surprise.
Show her, when she hears the gun, how to fight and how to run.
Not backwards and in heels, but recklessly
away from threats and deals and slimy guys who offer meals
and expect sex in return. Help her learn:
it is not her turn to give if she does not wish.
She is not a dish or meal to steal or taste or consume, served up like a leggy legume.
She is more than an hors d’oevre. Teach her to swerve.
She need amuse no douche’s bouche to be real, or feel, or deserve.

Teacher, we must be the steady hum,
the quiet thrum of power to her; bang her drum
when she can’t or won’t. Don’t teach her
to be afraid of herself or what she is; but be that Miss
Or Sir that condemns the kiss, the grab and miss, the hiss of insults
That results in this withering, shivering, quivering of her soul
That reduces her to just a hole
For others to poke, until she’s broken and even if she’s spoken up, there’s no hope.
Teach her that each must respect her, that sleazy creatures get impeached, at least in your reach.

Teacher, think about what you teach her
Not just in the classroom, but in passing, in your daily mask and in the task
And ask. Listen. Let her teach you, too. Christen
This new day with lessons old and new, a fresh hullabaloo.
Chew on this and spit the toxic years’ accrual in the bin. Do not sin
further; do not curdle your classroom and murder consent in the name of order.
Hoard her concerns and ask for more.
Give her the floor until she’s tall and sure
Then applaud her out that door.