Whupped

 

Spring Sessions I 70 x 50 cm mixed media on paper

WHUPPED

                                                              And what about women? He asks. Yes,

                                                               I think to myself, what about women?

                                                                                                Jack Gilbert

I like to watch them on TV.

She moves languidly across a suburban lawn.

Running shorts, tank top, hair in a twist;

she stretches a little, then jogs into the light.

I love to watch Jessica Jones thoroughly kick  

the sorry asses of some ugly rugby players  

who are trying to mess her up.

Who would want to hurt her, even if they could?

That meta-cool black leather jacket. Messy raven-wing hair.

Lips like some hybrid delicacy (grapefruit spliced

with strawberry perhaps) harvested every

fourth autumn in paradise. Why do I feel like a total idiot?

Soon I’ll be comparing her to a summer’s day. Only she can’t

hear me. She’s on Netflix. In the goofy hope

of a little eye contact I’m standing on the wrong side

of a body guard’s folded arms. She can’t even see me.

Had I not been born male, I’d be a girl with a thing

for flannel shirts and the martial arts, playing

softball in Berkeley and lusting after Kristen Stewart.

An asshole I know once said, “You’re pussy-whipped, dude.”

Oh really? I just like the way their minds play, “bro,” and how they

feel my pain, seem a little sad, even while they inflict it.