Backbone

The Geometry of Want

The Geometry of Want

Hipbone jutting out at the right angle, cocked and loaded, ready to go off like a gun. I used to wiggle down when I walked, because it made all my flesh bounce and the rhythm of my wobble pleased me because it pleased them. It made me feel like the stuff men sink their teeth into. But when they opened up their mouths, sharp rows of teeth were there behind the smiling ones.

Shall I Wear a Red Yes?

Shall I Wear a Red Yes?

When I read that women carry the microchimera of the fetuses they conceive, and also, of every man whose sperm has been inside them, I blister with rage. Is there nowhere in my body that has not been colonized? Do male microchimera get credit for every logical thought I have, for every time I’ve built a piece of IKEA furniture correctly, for my ambition? Have infinite particles of maleness made me what I am, just as they always claimed?