Author: ranneycampbell

You.
Woman. 
You made the word a curse word. 
I could never say it.
As a girl.
Woman.
It sounded dirty out of my mouth.
Woman.
Made my lips feel soft and round.
Woman.
Like womb.
Like pornography.
Spread open.
Never could say it without feeling nauseous.
Without my lips numbing feeling like slow motion.
Compromise.

You.
Woman.
With your side bends.
Your loud sharp dresses stiff.
Your desperation.
Woman.
Smelling like flowers.
From some garden we never been in.
Pink lipstick.
Yellow curlers.
Rouged cheeks.
Red phony rounded.
Coquettishness.
Painted chalkboard scraping fingernails.
Smiling wide dead.
Dulling eyes to seem stupid for them.
Using that voice that didn’t belong to you.
Sweet faltered quiet.
For men not my father.
The others.
You slut.

slut
i could always say that word
once my father said it
when you dragged me out of bed
in my long cotton nightgown
creamy white flowered dusting the floor
sat me rubbing my eyes
made me stay ’til midnight
with your face tight knotted
at the kitchen table to hear the drunken rant
to prove to me that he was not my hero
when he turned and told me
red-eyed and wobbling
i would grow up
to be a slut
just like my mother
before i knew what that word meant

Not like you. 
Woman.

Grown.
Done.
It is dirty.
That word.
I make it.
I take it.
Back bending.
Vamping flattery.
Front bending.
Before them.
Assaulting red lips with heat.
Not a bought stick.
Buff shine.
Nails digging.
Low toned groaning.
Bare skinned.
Witted.
Loose haired.
Clothes on the floor.
Leave them.
Dazzled as they lay.
Lay them down.
Climb on them.
That will have me.
Take them in.
Me.

Originally published in Misfit Magazine.

Photo: 2023.

she could smell a cop uncanny

she could swing a bat without shame

she could feel a milligram difference on her middle finger

lids dropped chin lifted slight sway like trancing

circled men silent awaited the verdict

                              light or heavy

she could knock’em out, piston fist’em

keep her mouth shut hours or days

pout it and drop’em, slink blend the wallpaper

when the law busted loudmouth’s party on the cul-de-sac

  slither out unseen

with somebody’s bottle of Jack off the kitchen table

                                       since they’d be in jail anyway

cuss like a barge worker, laugh big, or never be made to

no matter what, when she wanted

verbal drop any professor

terrify a badger with a glance black squint

or purr sable

only would scoot under the bed

let them push boxes and towels around her

shallow breathe this custody

for the Outlaws

                                no others

and when the big men came

to the back house from out of town

and wouldn’t answer to the names they said theirs

up the volume

Or, whatever the fuck your real name is, Boss Man,

offer a cold beer from the fridge                               

firm arm curled out stretching supple

arch twisted brown tied halter painted jeans

and they snapped to


Originally published by Anti-Heroin Chic.

Photo credit: Beth Kimball, 1999.