Chicken Little
A poem by Julia R. DeStefano
Being unable to sleep means using these dark hours to my advantage. Why do I feel so unsafe lately? I search through the recesses of my mind and come up with the concept of polarity — otherwise known as a woman assuming her femininity and a man assuming his masculinity. This theme keeps finding its way into my writing, and my latest poem is no exception. No longer am I desirous to penetrate walls, make the impact, and lead. Instead, I am in a space where I want to feel that leadership upon me, right down to the tips of my toes. I want to receive, be affected, and follow. I want to surrender control. I want to be able to rest easy, knowing someone’s got me for a change.
Chicken Little
Pretend the sky is falling with me.
An act of love, solidarity.
You don’t have to believe it.
I just need a voice other than my own
that doesn’t think of me as a boat to rent by the hour
to help my tired heart rest
and give the nightmares their send-off.
Borrowed and blue,
I am a seismograph of sensitivities
in my nakedness.
The queen of this ritual
of scrawling words onto page
in hungry fatigue.
Come morning, I will boil the water for oatmeal,
brew the coffee before sitting down to work -
choking back tears of unnameable lust
because I figured out
what life was for too late.
Don’t speak of a “new normal”
when it involves the sweet blood of woman
going to waste -
her now-useless body
thirsting to be elected for more
but knowing this:
in uncertain times,
we take off the mask
and become more alive than ever.
© Julia R. DeStefano
