If you shatter a glass ceiling,
there is shrapnel.
It is not a clean break.
Tampons, menopause shield,
embolden you to move undetected.
Body fluids are nothing.
Blood to milk to blood. Power to the mamma
the drama- that’s the prime time view
a fantasy of women who bust
through skylights where mocking
birds break their tweety little necks
on panes – fighty flappers- running
from famished clawed pussies.
Pasty architects make a mint
PS 1 through 1-million one, twisted towers,
stadiums, steeples, places to work
monuments to man-made history.
Word to your wise, they’re onto us, babe,
use binders of women and plexi-glass plates
that trump action when there’s a chance
of a slam dunk power point vertical leap.
The head bash?
Expected. Not effective-
dismissed with a wave to Aunt Flo, a pat on the knotted head,
an unpaid sick day to spend with your kids.
Read more of Krista Genevieve Farris’s poetry.
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Photo by Infrogmation of New Orleans /Flickr