The Voteless

THE VOTELESS

In my junior high history class,
right before the school quietly retired him,
Mr. Bloss taught the women’s movement
drunk. He stunk up the entire 8th grade
with his brewer’s yeast hiccups
and long cigarette breaks. Rolled
into class late, then shut the door
to speak unapologetically about women
or slaves. He’d say: All MEN are created
equal. He marched himself, that slow
death train frame, down the aisle. Thrust
his hips forward when he walked. Tapped
a worn ruler at each and every wooden desk
to punctuate a point as he passed, smacked,
spoke, then chose which one of us

14-year-old girls would be paddled
for insolence. He spat out
political slurs about suffrage
the whole way. Minimized violent
skirmishes and headed straight for us,
the resident voiceless. The poor immigrant
girls chatting in the back row. Those
who did not know how to fight him.
Those who had no help to call.
Those of us who would bend and grab
for their ankles in the lone echo hall-
way of that public school. In college,

I learned the suffragettes
got arrested and jailed in the Occoquan
Workhouse. They suffered beatings
or just stopped eating. Got force-fed
as police officers took turns
squeezing their breasts. Imagine it.
What nerve it must take
for proper ladies to be shushed
so quiet or pushed so far down
they decidedly uncross their legs
and riot. Cinch up their petticoats
to charge police lines. Warn men,
not as wives or as mothers,
but by what spirit it takes
to burn down and destroy
the loveliest tea house
at Kew Gardens.

ODD CHANGE THIS
STRANGENESS NAMED AGE

What story does a new beauty mark say? Mine quotes Frost:
My pretty, don’t ever underestimate age. Nature’s first green
ain’t turning gold. This thing is a mole. Gone bump brown, matronly
plump and slightly raised. Girl, you’ll grow mottled in spots and be pocked
in places with holes they can’t explain. Gotten old. That’s the true name.
Topple your supple topography and loosen the lush landscape
of your body’s young shape. You’ll change slowly but surely. Lady,
reserve a permanent place at the dinner table for dimples, pimples
and divots. Invite your hips, your belly, your digits. Keep deep strange
itches in the ears, the feet, the eyes. Happen upon the fright surprise
of lone whiskery white hairs. Pluck one here. You’ll sprout one there.
And those hands? Consider those mitts your mother’s. Remember her
opening jars and slamming cupboards? Cup a million handfuls of empty
bottles, dirty dishes, gritty glasses, warm faces, strong arms, hard asses.  
Dearie, hang onto those hands. You’ll need them for holding on.

Ampersand showcases locally made art that translates well into two dimensions. Send your previously unpublished prose, poetry and art submissions to the editor at ampersand@cityartsmagazine.com.