Prose and Poetry by Alley Greymond
Brash. Unwanted. Like timpani
next to one’s head during sleep.
I mute the television volume, avert my eyes
until I’m certain the news has moved on.
Today, another day I won’t talk with family or friends.
I have never looked closely enough
at their ranklement, brewing like daily coffee.
4 a.m. again
and I don’t even lift the curtains.
No visible stars, just streetlamps—
one street framed as the world
lined with cars, shadows
in harsh angles,
last night’s leaves on the ground
and sometimes a person
who should be home in bed—
the tension of their presence.
6/14/2026 (c)
adding dried flowers
and pink cardstock.
Hours.
It took hours to soak, to beat
with a hand mixer.
Then pouring and
shaking the mush
over a framed screen
like panning for gold.
Days to dry.
I tried heating the mash with a blow-dryer
and then in the oven—
tinged the petals
and at last,
a heavy texture
that refused the ink,
impossible to fold,
tampered paper that lost all
it’s paper essence.
5/11/26 (c)
Measuring my worth in cups
is not as tangible as it first seemed.
I use a dry cup for the bones,
a liquid cup for the blood,
measuring spoons for eyes and teeth.
I think I am accurate.
Discrepancies pile up.
The sum of my parts
is less than the whole
All my better parts are weightless
and lack the volume to measure.
I need to find a scale I cannot tip.
5/11/26 (c)
Sometimes I set a fire
just to set a fire.
I take someone’s lunch
from the community fridge
eat it at my desk.
When the notes go up
to quit stealing lunches—
I tape trolling signs beneath it—
It wasn’t that tasty anyway.
I keep that part of my life
anonymous.
I need fellow warriors
to fight beside me.
It’s a thrill—
to flex, to fume,
to throw opinions around—
what needs to change,
who has to go.
Alone, I am just cruel.
Together, we call it justice.
5/11/26 (c)
I draw a hot bath.
Turn screens off.
Essential oil in the diffuser.
Soft jazz in the background.
Returning to a good book,
I wait for my mind
to loosen its teeth.
The only thing missing
is a black cat’s company.
5/10/2026 (c)
On the Monday my father died
three strangers reminded me to smile.
Behind a wire fence
you stubbed out a cigarette
like you were killing a roach or trust.
Hey, smile lady.
Why grieve—
it’s a woman’s obligation
to improve the scenery.
Barista, you paused before frothing cream—
you’d be prettier if you smiled.
There it is. I got it—
from the executive suite.
That day I felt freed
of my father’s body shaming:
fat girl, hips too fat, thighs too thick
ugly face—don’t cry!
No man likes a sad woman.
His shaming—but not yours.
I’d rather read alone at the bar
than
hear unsolicited advice
and poorly executed pick-up lines.
Calamari intrigues more
than your touch ever could.
I remember
you wouldn’t hire me.
Over-qualified—
your clients couldn’t accept a woman.
Mediocrity is the white noise
behind business.
When you promoted me
for less than the man
before me—
and after.
They had families to support.
My daughter counted
as little as me.
When I threatened to sue—
unless you quit asking for blowjobs,
stop pressing me against
the walk-in freezer
to bite my earlobe,
You molested me at 7,
raped me at 21,
and again at 56.
Age did not protect me.
Was it good for you?
Single American men,
on the day my father died
my duty to love any man died.
