I feel called to share my wit
to help people laugh and feel seen
and hold a moment of pleasure in
These Times
But when my ink hits the notebook
my words flow red and weighty
barbed, ruthless, unsettling.
I cap my pen and exhale with force
toss my open journal to my husband
ask him to screen my latest piece
before it goes
Live and unretractable
out into the world.
After a long silence
he lifts his head and ventures:
That's...dark, Babe.
Well it's reality, I retort.
Fine.
Turn the page
there's another!
After a quiet moment,
he looks up through dark brows
and emits a short laugh-groan:
Um so that one's darker yet.
I swear I'm funny, I exclaim
I'm hil-arrrr-ious!
Usually.
But I can't find it now.
He scrunches his forehead
as he searches for his response:
You do have a bright and authentic
and sarcastic voice, you're funny--
but that voice is not here.
I muse aloud
I guess my comic is in hiding?
But she's in there
I know her--
Well, he says
These lines reflect your mood...
Heavy.
I stare out the closest window
at windswept evergreens
while I gather my thoughts.
"Heavy" I repeat.
That's accurate, that's true.
Women carry the weight
and consequence of the many
whims of rich white men in power.
He tilts his head
nods up and down
in acknowledgement:
Right.
I shoot him a half smirk
bounce my shoulders up to my ears
and assure him:
But my next poem will be a hoot!
