Abigail Conklin
Pubic Maintenance
Why are women always
the crazy ones? Logic applies,
and I apply it. Logic says
he’s coming over so
I’m going to go shave now.
Right?
Though I’m crazy so
maybe I won’t.
But there are other women
who would hurriedly strip
out the hair—
fine, rough,
thin, sharp, straight—
if they hadn’t scheduled in
the doing already,
and I can’t blame them.
There are days when my wishing
to tear out my own fur is countered only
by the ferocity of my entitlement
to it. To that greediest of statements:
this is my body,
this is my blood.
This is the skin in which I stalk,
and men can have beards,
leg hair, a multi-tiered system
of societal oppression behind them
as they preside over the final supper
with arms raised,
but I can have this.
This hair between my legs,
beneath my arms, along
my lip. These conversations,
muttering and unintelligible as I walk,
wishing it were winter
and that I might disappear.
Abigail Conklin‘s poetry has appeared on The Bridge, a writer’s community website, and the blog Bonus Cut. She lives in New York City where she writes, frequents poetry readings, and works in curriculum publishing.
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