In other news, this is the top. Weep for what little things
would make them jealous. I publish a poem
online, and people post comments. Smart little analyses, short papers
they might turn in for school. Or “This is not a good poem. Here’s
a good poem.” Then they post their poems. One man posts a photo
of my face, says look at her; obviously she’s fucking the editor. Fucking!
The editor! To publish a sonnet about an execution. Look at that face!
This one! The face of a whore. There is a backlash, back and forth
over my slutty face, lecherous editors. The man
apologizes for going too far. My face is still up there, though,
with comments about how slutty I look. I am in my thirties
in the picture. It looks like me. No makeup. A student
evaluation once included this sentence: Sometimes I think Jill
forgets to brush her hair. This is sexy. This is all that. I am ecstatic.
Those eyes I thought were tired? In truth, they smolder. Those lips,
a little chapped? Come hither. The bags under my eyes
have bags. I hoped I looked a little wise, projected empathy.
I forget that I’m a woman, that for some people that’s enough.
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