(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.
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