By Remica Bingham-Risher
But for the grace of God
one might begin and
this must be the life of a woman. I will barely touch the…
one might begin and
this must be the life of a woman. I will barely touch the…
Explore Poems: Gender & Sexuality
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- By SapphoTranslated By Dan Beachy-QuickAs the sweet-apple reddens on the high branch,
high on the highest branch, that the apple-pickers forgot… - By Cornelius EadySome folks will tell you the blues is a woman,
Some type of supernatural creature.
My mother would tell… - By Corey Van Landinghamwas, according to Virgil, always a fickle, unstable thing. Woman. Wyf. Merger of wife and man. To indicate: not-girl. Not-yet-claimed, not-yet weeping. And aren’t they often weeping? The mother, tearing her hair out, running toward the battle lines, filling heaven...
- By Sylvia ChanI want to begin this poem with two stories:
1. In 1984, my mother was pulled over for speeding in a rural, still unnamed village in Taishan. The cop was a forty-year-old man who let her go because of her age... - By Brandon YoungMy father said to me once your only choices are the factories. Oil stains or
the selfsame bruises. No longings for the night. Looking back I think of
things I could have done differently ... Sure, it could have all been different,
but what’s the use now, when all... - By Brandon YoungOh, don’t worry, we will let our hair down tonight—
but first we must remember on this stage, the queen
we lost, who they killed not too far from here
just... - By Rickey LaurentiisWhy doubt I’d grow breasts a ‘Natural’ way?
Am I not ‘Real’ Flesh? Am I not enworthied sway
of that Biology? Not ‘Cis,’ you think me ‘alien’?
Loose? Do I so estrange? Wouldn’t I be, monstrous, the ‘Gorgon’
Lady with my two ‘new,’ added,... - By Kristín Svava Tómasdóttirher mind ranged higher than common happenings
no miser- or mutable soul was she
enjoyed herself reading books and essays
not suited to popular taste
had within herself
a bright world of dreams and poems
knew how to get along with high and low
knew how to... - By Kristín Svava TómasdóttirTranslated By K.B. Thorslearningnonsense
sheer vanity
such outrageous thoughts back then
girls learning to write!
you’re not sheriff yet!
all will had to be suppressed
everything had to happen in hidingTranslated from the Icelandic - By Jackie SabbaghIt is day infinity
of everyone wanting me dead. People are having fun
bringing lemon squares and automatic artillery to the anti-trans community meetings.
Divorced legislators harangue
about pedophile cults and surgeried infants and what ever happened to forever ago.
I am more beautiful than... - By Kristín Svava TómasdóttirTranslated By K.B. Thorssnow in most tracks
stories obscured
from pagebound memory
these lines only attempt
to save a few
remarkable women
from the driftsTranslated from the Icelandic - By Karyna McGlynn& watch Kevin Bacon conjure fake tears in a Real Hallway
& I am Real Tears in a fake hallway
& “Procreation is gross though”
I’m nine & a half, watching “The Miracle
of Life” on my mother’s bed
Stirring my shells & cheese
I see... - By Jackie SabbaghI am so in love with the female CEO.
My checks come on time and I saw the livestream of her speaking… - By K. IverAt my beloved’s burial,
I can’t see his body.
Only carnations. I hear
your name and my beloved’s
in the … - By Jos Charlesits a secrete
the grls speeching mye hole /
inn 2 the lindens / wee go out
& playe footballe / verie nashenallie
how wee leeve a stall / piteus
wen the grls
speech me /
this is how u make a porno / ... - By DaMaris B. HillEvery wife must apologize for not being her husband’s
mother? But he will not forgive you. The absence
of his mother's kiss is the scar of repeated
wounding. He marries you too young, before
he littered his seeds along the road. This is why
he... - By H.D.He and I sought together,
over the spattered table,
rhymes and flowers,
gifts for a name.
He said, among others,
I will bring
(and the phrase was just and good,
but not as good as mine,)
"the narcissus that loves the rain."
We strove for a name,
while the light of... - By Alison C. RollinsI am
a product
of my time.
Time is a body
that resembles
a sound without a scale.
Forever foreclosed fortitude.
In heaven, the dinner bell rings
as elegy. The porch-light stars turn
on their mothering moths. Betrayal
takes at least two, and wherever two
or more are gathered, I am... - By Beth Ann Fennellyreveals itself in retrospect. Unlike the first,
whose March arrival bade you gasp, hands clasped,
like a child actor instructed to show joy, when the last
departs for points south, there’s no telling,
and no tell. Well, so what? You know their cycle.
In August,...