Triple Threat
New poem by M. Magee
These girls.
These women.
These Goddesses.
All telling stories
Like tender snowflakes
All part of a raging storm
They call to me
And to you
And to all of us
DO Something
SAY Something
Rage! Die! Kill! Scream!
Don’t let the mean ones in
Don’t let the nice ones out
Don’t let me out
Or in
Or both
Rage against the machine.
Rage
Such an awesome word
And Death
Tracing snow-angels after the storm
One, Two, Three
Angels in a row
Delicate
Simple
Beautiful
All Her Stories left there
Three dead snow-angels
These girls
These women
These Goddesses
On Beauty
New poem by Kim Malinowski
I bet Aphrodite didn’t have to shave her armpits,
no, she would go natural.
A goddess doesn’t have to conform
to societal pressures—
she is the pressure, the ideal, the embodiment
of desire and sensualness.
So, when I think of Aphrodite,
I think of her naked self as hairy,
maybe her navel a little linty.
Maybe her hair doesn’t cascade
to her waist and maybe both of her breasts
aren’t plump, maybe one is a little lopsided,
and the other a little red at the base.
She has curves and a belly—after all
she ate all that goddess food.
And her eyes are lightning, daring humans
with her sumptuousness, her dazzling bounty.
She spins and the heavens just drool.
That’s what rain is.
Goddesses don’t shave, they just look damn good
in whatever they wear, and do it with pizazz.
