Guest Post Number Two, in which we read poetry.

For those who missed it, my husband finally got home from a yearlong deployment in Afghanistan. He's on leave for the next two weeks, and several of my internet (and real life) friends have generously offered to provide posts so I can spend some time with him without feeling like I'm neglecting you.

Our second guest post comes from the lovely and talented Rena Lesue-Smithey: Teacher and writer extraordinaire. Not only do a I hate her just a little because she's an actual writer who gets published, but also because she's skinnier than I am. You can find more from her HERE and HERE.

(Rena and her infamous gams.)

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(Original post HERE)

I got to meet poet, J. Allyn Rosser, and after a sordid affair with diction and imagery and 5 versions of a Russian poem about a panther, our love child (this poem) was born. And here it is presented to you without swaddling clothes, without the amniotic fluids swiped from it's face, and cord still attached. (Man, this metaphor is gross.)
I hope you enjoy.

Frowning naked in the mirror while finishing off a bag of peanut m&ms,

My chocolate fingerprints evidence for a diet forensic pathologist,

I slide to the bottom of the tub,

Let the water rain down on my convulsing body to bathe my tears.

Yet, the pain remains and now I have a stuffy nose.

Then, mentally, I finger my goals,

My dreams deferred and I curse aloud.

Damn! Flannery O'Connor and her Southern genius on the human condition.

Damn! Meg Wolitzer and her Jewish feminist brilliance.

Damn! Damn! Damn! Stephenie Meyer for being a fluke success.

Buried beneath the weight of words;

I take heart, wipe away black tears,

Kiss my daughter, the next generation feminist;

A Buffy...not a Bella.
A Buffy battling the Bella's of the world.
A roundhouse kick to her pining female foil.
An uppercut to Her male-dependent prose.

Because my daughter deserves an example of me.

She needs to know how to defeat the enemy,

And stake inferiority,

While wearing stylish shoes.