thou shalt not complain about
anything I might have to fix

It's always embarassing when some woman
rolls up her blouse sleeve to show you a bruise
not sexy even, just colored like a charcoal
sunset, the fingerprints of pain.

We have been trained to ignore the cries
through the motel wall. After all, maybe
he's paying for it. Some women like
to be hurt. You know how cats sound then.

It is as if she stripped in the committee room,
so awkward, so tiresome, her trouble
scattered around the room like used
underwear, not bustiers but nylon slips.

It's comfortable here in my office,
the corner office finally. It's cosy
on my twenty-fourth floor with balcony,
here in the compound with a guard at the gate.

You weep into my telephone, leaving
desperate messages on my answering machine.
You write me long handwritten notes
I throw into the paper shredder.

You buttonhole me in the hallway,
stand beside my table while I consume
my brioche, march outside with signs.
I step into your hard luck on the street.

Don't you understand your pain bores
me? I am all for free expression
except for those who whine,
who weep, who moan, who scream.

I will listen gladly to any complaint
I share; I will sign on for any charity
I don't have to smell. I only object
to demanding     change     from me.

-- Marge Piercy

x

Iris

Iris is writing a poem while I read the paper at her apartment.
she blows a cigarette ash right into her shoe.
it doesn't seem to bother her.

I read the peom later and it doesn't make much sense.
then again, nethier does she.
it's Sunday and I'm at her place again.

she plays Strauss and techno on the stereo
as people drop in on her all day long.
it's just that kind of place.
friends stop in and stay for dinner.
her roommate is dying but we don't talk about it.

(she's the one who fixes me when I'm falling apart-
stitches me back together with nicotine and tea)

she's the kind of girl that can make a dress
out of a garbage bag.
she always somehow looks better than I ever will.
there's a lot of drag queen in her.

I lend her books and give her CDs.
we borrow pens and money from eachother's bags.
we're beyond the permission phase.

she's not dating anyone now.
she gets cushes on guys and girls but nothing happens.

she travels to places I've only seen in magazines.
she's got friends with no last names.
you can't take a bad picture of her.
she falls out of bed and somehow looks glamorous.
I paint her toenails backstage before a show.
she's so pretty when she smiles.

we can finish each other's sentences.
she laughs a lot.

there's something wrong with her
but she won't say what it is.

she's the only friend who hasn't turned on me yet.
but she will.
they always do.

-- Nicole Blackman

                    and the process of beginning again is
always so difficult. and yet we do it, because we
are reader. so we must.