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.
