Talicha J.

A Woman’s Place is
After Jeremy Radin

They give me a husband, two point five babies, and a picket fence.
I give it right back.

Trade it for the whole bed to myself, a dog that sheds too much, the top floor of an overpriced walk-in. Go to college and get a degree, Society bargained.

              Why?

So I could be like everyone else I know working for just above the minimum
with a hundred and fifty thousand dollar slip of paper hanging on the wall?

I’d rather be broke from zip lining in Puerto Rico for my friend's wedding.
Bank account dwindled to the pool of sweat in the perked up cleavage

of my concert fit in hopes Min Yoongi would lock eyes with me
and an epic Your Name would begin. I’d rather be eating thirty-nine cent

ramen because it tastes good and because I spent my whole paycheck on workshops
and poetry books and brought my friends beer that costs as much

as the whole pack for one at the bar in between sets at the open mic, and next week
at the burlesque show, and next week, wherever we are.

A woman's place is wherever she stands, sits, kneels. For example,
me with my mouth open ready to receive the blessing of a large mocha

latte iced on my tongue before pulling away from the drive-thru window in an old car without AC.
It’s crop tops and shorts on my eye-catching curves, saying no to the men who stop

their cars in the middle of the street to ask if they can cook dinner and serve me mimosas
while I walk my dog. It’s saying no thank you and that being the dissolution of the conversation.

End stop. Period.

Previously published with Moonlight Idiosyncrisies and Beyond the Veil Press