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      June 25, 2018Wonder Woman UnderoosNicole Homer

      Next to the red and blue heat of the stove, the white
      woman’s face is stretched across my ass. Her straight
      teeth snug against each handful of me. Her smile,
       
      slightly distorted but still iconic, looks out into the dining room
      at herself. There, three more of her, three more
      of me: one holds up her bracelets. Sharp flash of ricochet,
       
      another wild thing almost tamed by a woman flaunting
      a docility gifted to her. How shiny it is. The bullet
      and the bracelets and on the next small body, a tiara.
       
      There is nothing that was not once alive
      in the kitchen. I am here because what wouldn’t I kill
      to call myself mother? In the other room, their perfect need.
       
      What a beautiful weapon atop that woman. The last body:
      a lasso turning above her head. She will make us tell
      the truth. I do not like the children
       
      asking me for food. I am tired of the open,
      loud mouths of these choices. I want to be an indestructible
      white woman, a weaponized smile. How do you fix your mouth
       
      to ask for more? This is how they conquer:
      by overwhelming. They swarm the table and chair
      and crawl and climb and laugh and spill and
       
      they wait for me to make them breakfast, so I break
      egg after egg after egg. How else can you feed your young
      without the currency of someone else’s? We are the same
       
      every morning. They say: Mommy I want
      you to wear there is an inexhaustible list of heroes
      they ask me to imitate. This is how I parent:
       
      in a skin I didn’t choose. But didn’t I
      buy them all these white women’s smiles
      and heroes? And who has not wanted to wear someone
       
      else’s pelt? In the evenings, I throw the used white women
      into a pile in the corner. Some days, I lie to the children
      say that I am wearing what they have chosen. When I am not
       
      their mother, I still choose the familiar heroes. I want to be
      someone else: a woman whose young is not open-mouthed,
      waiting to be rescued. I am so tired. Some days
       
      I just want to dress myself. But I don’t
      know what else a woman would wear
      if not her children’s want for someone better.

      from #59 - Spring 2018

      Nicole Homer

      “Poetry is supposed to change the way we see things. I can’t look at a spider the same after reading ‘Allowables.’ I can’t think about frozen lakes without a sense of awe and mourning after reading ‘Elk.’ Every thing we do is political. Every thing. Even underwear. I want someone to think about their underwear, and maybe their heroes, differently after reading this poem.”

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