|
This Needs a Violin
by Johanna May
Because I lack two more degrees
and a whiter mixed last name,
lower in the strata of economics—
my secrets are dangerous,
the others of my kind are nominated
as Noble.
I am what they write about, my fellowkind,
redminded sisters.
They win after all, while my life
plays out in their verses and novels.
Post-war, post-trauma;
a character placed in diaspora land,
given this and that as plot advancement.
A white abusive ex husband, a mixed son,
a long winter, some funny moments
involving simple desires.
Because I am that, basic.
I cover every demographic in this post-world,
what bays at night incomplete
in their polished eloquence,
repressed survivor guilt, while my words,
no-beta, technique starved,
each error in the foreign vernacular,
a scar that proves my improbability.
A strange woman, in between.
Trying to peddle words like hookers,
like my ancestors once,
opening their legs to each colonist.
The political-economy of relevance.
07/26/2025 Author's Note: Sorry for this self-indulgent whine.
Posted on 07/26/2025
Copyright © 2025 Johanna May
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 07/26/25 at 09:32 AM I like it. Excellent rant, and well titled! |
| Posted by Richard Vince on 07/26/25 at 12:55 PM There is nothing at all to apologise for. Expressing how you feel honestly is, for me, the point of poetry, and in any case, there's a lot to be angry about (and not just at the moment). This is raw and unguarded, and therefore moving; and, on a selfish level, it helps me to get closer to understanding what I will never fully be able to understand. Please write what you want/need to write, always. It will always be worthwhile. |
|
