poem: what is a woman?

when we were talking, he treated

me entirely different from last year,

he looked in my eyes

and said, “i believe–and i’m sure you do too–“,

already giving me credit for having

the right opinions, the right ideologies; this un-pretty

girl who can talk of post-modernism, intersectionality

and all the necessary college-activist

ideals. but i had the distinct sense that we

were the victorian men,

smoking our pipes in the drawing room

talking politics,

while his girlfriend sat with the ladies

in the parlor, her white hands folded over a large

hoop-skirt, her eyes politely blank.

what is the price for my

intellectualism, what is the price

for my pride?

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