Readers' Advisory: Strong Female Characters: Poetry

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say, It's in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

this is the recipe of life
said my mother
as she held me in her arms as i wept
think of those flowers you plant
in the garden each year
they will teach you
that people too
must wilt
fall
root
rise
in order to bloom

Have I forgotten it-
wild conch-shell dialect,
black apostrophe curled
tight on my tongue?
Or how the Spanish built walls
of broken glass to keep me out
but the Doctor Bird kept chasing
and raking me in: This place
is your place, wreathed in red
Sargassum, ancient driftwood
nursed on the pensive sea.

These are the late poems.
Most poems are late
of course: too late,
like a letter sent by a sailor
that arrives after he's drowned.

Too late to be of help, such letters,
and late poems are similar.
They arrive as if through water.

the first boy that kissed me
held my shoulders down
like the handlebars of
the first bicycle
he ever rode
i was five

A loop, a girl born
to each family,
prelude to suffering.

Bless the baby girl,
caul of dissatisfaction,
patron saint of not
good enough.

The Hanged Man
Broken
By fire
Is
Neither
More Beautiful
Nor
Less
Sane.

In the '80s, my sister - Homecoming Queen
and Prom Queen - with Tawny Kitaen-teased hair
and big boobs, got knocked over by a wave
on this very beach and walked up toward our chairs
unwitting.