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      November 23, 2020To My Student with the Dime-Sized Bruises on the Back of Her Arms Who’s Still on Her CellphoneLaurie Uttich

      Oh honey, you can text him, you can like his meme, you can
      follow him on Twitter and to Target, you can ride shotgun, hold
      his anger on your lap, pet his pride, be his ride or die. You can
      wear those jeans he likes. You can discover Victoria’s
      secret, buy a bra with a mind of its own. You can
      recite I’m sorry like it’s a Bible verse and Snapchat the shit out
       
      of those purple roses he bought you at Publix. You can try
      every one of Cosmo’s 30 Ways to Give an Ultimate Blowjob.
      You can remember the name of his mother, his best friend
      in 2nd grade, the lunchroom lady who gave him extra
      chicken strips on Tuesdays. You can grow out your bangs, toss
      your hometown over your shoulder, sleep facing north
      with your cheek in his back.
      You can strip yourself for parts.        But, baby,
       
      it still won’t be enough. You can love him, but you can’t pull
      his story out of the dark and slide your arms into it. You can’t
      wash it and lay it flat in the sun to soften. You can’t
      hold his face in both of your palms and watch tomorrow
      bloom from the sheer wanting and waiting of it. It doesn’t
      matter if his daddy talked with his hands        or his bloodline
      is marinated in booze        or his mama loved his brother best.
      You can’t fix what somebody else broke.
       
      So, girl, put down your phone and pick up
      your pen. Take a piece of the dark and put it on a page.
      Sylvia Plath waits to wash your feet. And look,
      Virginia Woolf has built you another room and painted
      it pink. There’s a place for you at the table. Sit next to me;
      I got here late.        Oh, baby, don’t you feel it? You were knit
      for wonder in your mother’s womb.
      You were born for the driver’s seat.

      from #69 - Fall 2020

      Laurie Uttich

      “At fifteen, I started what would be a ten-plus-year ‘career’ in the service industry. I’ve been a florist assistant, a server, a cocktail waitress, a bartender, a catering assistant, a donut shop worker, a ‘bar cart girl’ at a golf course, and other jobs. I typically worked one or two jobs regularly and then picked up a third when I needed more money. After getting my first ‘real’ job as a copywriter, I continued to work at various service jobs to pay off my student loans (and cover the rent). I don’t know who I’d be without spending so much time under the scrutiny of men (and sometimes women) who first tried to decide if I was attractive enough to hire … and then, later, by men who were customers and often intoxicated. I think about that girl back then and when I imagine my younger self behind a bar or squeezing between two tables balancing a tray, I see myself so clearly as prey, my face frozen into a smile. I suppose the easy response is that being a part of these environments made me a feminist poet, but that’s oversimplifying it. I was always an observer, but being in a situation where it feels as if anything could happen—and you’re supposed to be friendly right up until the second it turns into something else, and who knows when that will be?—shapes how I view situations and how I address them in my work. In prose, I’m always couching reflections—‘not all men’ and that sort of thing. In poems, I just swim in the emotion of the moment and I don’t worry about any global conclusions a reader might make.”

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