When this poet was homeless on the sidewalks of Humboldt County, she was amazed and disgusted by both the underhanded lengths to which men would go to seduce her, and those men’s absolute self-assurance that if they just waited until she was beaten down enough by suffering, she’d give in.

One or two would wait for her worst, most despairing days (all humiliatingly publicly displayed, of course, from first moment to last) and come back around to check in, from inside their cars, every couple of months.

Like this (it still astonishes her to think of it):

“Watcha doin’?”

This poem was written for them ~ as well as for all the miserable unfortunate who are convinced that they will never receive real love, and will connive shamelessly to acquire any miserable facsimile thereof.

No ~ however great the hardships, however desired the inducement ~ she don’ dance.

Tonight’s raindrops falling upon the poet’s van home are heard in the background of its voice recording.

*****

Recorded Reading (2:16): https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/tsjh38p6s2w0rr004gfgr/Call-it-What-it-Should-Be.mp3?rlkey=pundsedyoyd7sgu3x65zuiz9x&st=y9hux1kc&dl=0

*****

Call it What it Should Be

Don’t try to get my love despite me
Want my company? Invite me!
I will not go running after
Romance or affection, laughter,
Conversation — anything
You may pleasantly me bring

Yes, you may be ultra cool
Doesn’t mean I’ll play your fool
Midst of conversation one day
Would please you I’d less to say
Afterward wondering why
I don’t come on your lap to lie

True potential I may see
For domestic harmony
And even a lovely chance
To cultivate sweet romance ~
None of that can come before
I know which is my own front door

And can rightfully assume
Habitation of a room
Here or elsewhere — it’s a sin
With affection beg or bargain
Something this heart, straight and true
Cannot bring itself to do

This heart will not take the way
Typical hearts do today
Falling backward into love
Denying existence of
Reducing it, as that man sang,
To “gettin’ on top a’ that thang “

If you want to turn this page
You’ll have to reduce the rage
Left behind in your hurt heart
By other souls’ feminine art
I don’t think art’s where it’s at
So, me ~ I don’t practice that

No lies, no games, no test patterns
I’m not one of those cheap slatterns
Not a nurse and not a mother
Nor a bitch, but something other
It’s no use resenting me
As something I will never be

The next time that reclusive I
Decide to take on any guy
He will not be standing by
Wondering why I won’t try;
He will look me in the eye
Without attempting to deny,

Diminish, “educate,” control,
Any part of this good whole ~
Any act which, well intended,
Seeks bridges between us mended;
Any part this essence of ~
And call it what it should be. Love.

*****

This poet/editor is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level.

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