Inside out.


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I so identify with men, superficially.
I've had that haircut, Michael Jordan's
smooth pate, or Andy Bell's crewcut.
I don't think I'm much good at being
a girl. I couldn't even get pregnant
when it would have mattered.
His number is out of service.
This odd day, a June day with rain squalls
and sunshine.
The ocean rips pain out of me. Other oceans,
other beaches.
I still look, and the men, boys look at me.
There's no connection, just pawing through
the sale racks.





© 2006 Anne Westlund




Poetry by Anne Westlund
Read 870 times
Written on 2006-10-12 at 10:02

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Sandy Hiss
Interesting poem. I like how you manage to say so much in a few lines. Well done
2006-10-12