Some of us are born blacklisted—don’t want work
in the womanly arts. Others choose
to wait and see. Here’s a gender song, gentle.
A two song, a chain? O my small starlet sunk
I apologize to your past future self, hosed
down the drain of my most need, gurgling. I apologize
to no-one else. The practice was on a back street in Brookline
leafy, and devoid of protesters. They sent away my boyfriend
two hours before my name was called, two hours
to practice being alone with my decision. In the middle
of the night I woke bleeding. The would-be child was fiction now
yet part of my geology. Hello, notables who rule choice
chisel our numbers, bait your traps—this song
won’t teach you something new. It’s not for you.
Edith Friedman is a poet, parent, and sometime project manager who lives in Northern California. She admires the ways of people and plants, and tries not to second guess. Her collection Reconstruction was selected by Lee Ann Roripaugh for the 2024 Lefty Blondie Press First Chapbook Award. Recent writing appears in Poets Reading the News, Rogue Agent, Five Minutes, Aôthen, and Nifty Lit. She has an MFA from Saint Mary’s College of California.
