(or What I Would've Said to the Woman
at the Grocery Store Who Called Me a Dyke
If She Hadn't Run Away)
If by dyke you mean a low wall meant to guard against the floodwaters of the sea or those tricky memories that surface at the worst times, then you’re not wrong. If by dyke you mean sandbags stacked high enough to keep the rivers from
drowning the village or the swells from smudging my mascara, then I would agree with you. If by dyke you mean I can take a pounding whether by hurricane winds or patriarchy or Mondays or enthusiastic lovers, then, well, you nailed it. If by dyke you mean that even as I break and crumble or as I am swept away by the waves, that I can always be rebuilt stronger, better next time, then I thank you for the compliment.
However, if by dyke you mean a causeway like a raised path over a marsh or a bog, then it’s not so true because I often forget to take the high road, you cunt.
Copyright ©2017 by Angie Tonucci. All rights reserved.