No, I do not wear petticoats,

my curves subdued by starch and bone.

Rather, I am joyful, basking

in ferocity, freedom

to wear red satin corsets or

grease-stained flannel and know

all the while

my hips flare just the same.

.

No, I am not bitter, angry at men,

but rather, grateful to all the women

before me, my tall and sequined

great-grandmother, a flapper.

My great-aunt, who broke six

hearts, six engagements,

before she found a love to suit

and who taught my mother to trust herself always,

who in turn taught me

as well as she knew how.

.

No, I am not an extreme, a dimension

diminished, in that one angle

looks just like the rest. I am

soft-hearted and fierce

alternately woman and girl.

Now a giggly girl in bare feet

and her brother’s baggy tee,

tomorrow a woman,

strutting black leather

boots and eyes full of secrets,

joyful, in the glow

of well-worn freedom.

.

No, I do not wear stiff petticoats, but

if I did I’d wear them with combat boots

and say Yes. Yes. I am a woman.

.

Yes…

art combat boots corsets culture feminist freedom philosophy poetry sexy feminism femme femme pride