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World Full of Women
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2026 A man walks in the room,
something about me shifts.
I sit taller,
I think in spirals,
I talk convoluted.
I make my mind
a lollipop for the audience.
I wish my skin had wings.
I wish my birds had claws.
I’m not saying I’m
a worse me, a better me,
more on, more on edge.
(Although maybe all of these are true,
the patriarchy whispers.)
But but but in my kaleidoscope eye,
this is where I float,
where my body strengthens & relaxes.
My mother-in-law’s two daughters
and their two wives,
on the phone with her mother more than daily.
My sister, my mother, my grandmother
all traveling to visit,
three generations on a park bench.
In a room full of queer musicians
I still draw in all the girls,
even the newer ones.
There’s a joke here somewhere,
my underdeveloped flirting
even knows where we stand.
I have always found long-haired loves-
though they may not come & go
all hours of the night,
they draw me ‘cross the city
on a Thursday night,
they follow me safely
most of the way home.
They book plane tickets,
explore forever, cry Monday.
They try all her best recipes- and the okay ones too.
They sip ice & lemon & mint within the walls
& dress up to meet me where I am.
We celebrate all the small things.
All the sides surround me,
voices carrying high across the room,
a few men freckling the estrogen-
only our favorites.
Even the cats-
hardly any toms in sight.
We are all trying to balance giving,
pleasing people & not people pleasing,
relearning our own patterns.
We bake bittersweet into the Christmas cookies,
bursts of rainbows in the icing,
while making homes & hearts that matter.
We climb mountains & try not to ruin nostalgia.
We know each other’s weak spots & only sometimes say them out loud.
We are a lot.
We toss egg dye down the sink,
leaving behind what we can’t use anymore
but knowing it was all so beautiful.
We knock down our own drywall
put in our own faucets
bring our own power tools.
We stay connected under different skies,
leave pets always in the group chat,
pick up keepsakes that scream their names.
We break the rules to bring gifts,
shout out new friends that finally got here,
are known across the city for the silliest reasons.
We bring in our own schemes.
We remember all the mistakes
and we make and make and make them.
Sorry Mom.
We teach our children to be kind,
loud and smart and independent,
generous and thoughtful and here here here.
Our spines surge after a long winter’s nap,
ache after a party,
and still we wake to a stumbling sun-
she greets us like the French,
kisses and a lilting alto,
asking after all our daughters.
We used to scrapbook,
now we hang up all the pictures,
turn reminisce into a shrine.
What else could it be
but this world full of women
bringing me to life.
