I took to own my body
regardless of my heart’s
or significant other’s
mistakes or whimsies. I researched
it all, and I set to clear out and shut
the place, knowing it’d be a tad uncomfortable,
a little risky, unclean. They said I’m so young.
Walking away from the office alone, a small flutter
in my core, in a place I’ve not given
an ass worth about before.
Discomfort burned and welded
KEEP OUT to protect me from
needing to choose because the choice
has been made. I lean over a railing
and heave. And from a quiet place,
amidst that ironclad sign, I’m catching
a second fiddle
whose chair I’ve kicked away
and a place at the breakfast table
I’ve cleared away
dimples and hazel eyes
I will never share
my preemptive choice
I’ve never ever wavered about
I lean face down against my used car
and hold council with this one pause
that’s come so so late.
A little flutter amidst the sign
has me wave goodbye, and acknowledge
why some women don’t choose to never ever say hi.
Jeri Frederickson is a writer, director, and curator of stories and talented people in Chicago. She drinks coffee and whiskey like many other people but has a cat who could trump Trump for inexplicable noises that could possibly be meant as language.