-my oldest son reacts to feminism
He’s just a boy, my oldest son,
following two sisters. A tattered warrior,
I’m focused on making sure the girls
have chances I didn’t.
My eyes are on the lookout, my vision wide,
my pique often pointed and raw.
Meanwhile, my confused boy
draws rudimentary maps
of the neighborhood, his world for now,
and is trying to find his way through it.
I know it’s not always easy for him,
and maybe he thinks I don’t see that, so far,
his boy body has brought a windfall of nothing
to his buttered lap, his clement days.
The house we live in chants with books, signs:
Well-behaved Women Seldom Make History,
A Woman’s Place is in the House…and in the Senate
weighting the place where he dreams.
He sees me take his sisters
to marches, candlelight vigils, leaving him
an airy subtraction
with hints of blame for being who he is.
My son who often pauses in the middle of his play
to pluck a flower to bring to me.
My son, the blue burn of his eyes
exposing the depth of his peeled-plum heart,
its minor notes,
the surrounding sclera white
as his personality: peacemaker, honest, cautious,
one who hesitates to claim his share.
