A literary name,
The Travails of Plethora:
Or Innocence Preserved,
(1740) by Sir Graham
Nigelson, or, a pied
Cloth in a sepia photo,
Under an Aphidistra on a side
Table, or, an organ’s fleshy sheath
“The surgeon retracts the plethora
So the tumor beneath…”,
Or, a purplish rash. “…a plethora
with headache, call 911…”,
Or, a long prayer of atonement
Muttered by a nun
At sunset, or…
The lagoon is long gone,
But Laguna Street,
Where women slogged
Hauling dirty clothes
Cuts over the wealthy heights.
Downtown there’s a frisky statue
Of a washerwoman’s daughter
And, near the park, a mansion
Her sugar king built her.
Time shatters lives
Into such glinting shards
Of folklore.
Young women imagine
if they keep certainty
From their voices,
You will listen.
Even “The sun rises in the east,”
or
“Antarctica is cold”
Must end on a slight, singing rise,
So it sounds like a question
Or a plea.
We old women know
It doesn’t matter.
We school out that song,
Don’t give a damn
If you call us shrews
Or Karens,
Or b*tches,
Those names
For women
who are sure
Instead of demure.
They hang in one noose
Bodies upright,
Heads upside down, close
As if comforting each other.
About to be transmuted
With heat and wine.
In its honor, I’m going to share a gift chance gave me.
A few years ago, one April, as I was riding the elevator to my office, I saw this taped to the wall in the back of the car, exactly as it is here, on my computer.
I took off the paper clip, and this unfurled.
I do not know the author. I don’t even know if it was the author who pinned this to the wall of a downtown office building elevator.
I just know that I love this poem and how I found it.
Pam Troy 