She’s bedded down in the hollow
of her mother’s expectation.
She’s dug for her furring
curves a gaze-escape
that’s her retreat from
the family den of sex inequity.
There, under- ground, her Flopsy
self’s centered in her better nature’s
itchy need for separation from her warren kin.
Her little hole’s a burrower’s
Wonderland furnished with
a little desk & chair of knotty pine.
this booby hutch her escape hatch—
her invaginate imagination takes
a pubis-eyed view from her earthen
nest of premature self-consciousness.
Her precocious interiority’s
like a tulip bulb, dirt-bulwarked;
a Netherlands in hiding
from predations of the hawked
model of femininity to which
she’s promised her tawny beauty marking
her as a fancier’s or furrier’s moving target.
She hankers in her bunker, nests. She doffs her rabbit coat, & scribbles code in her moleskin notebook as self-preservation gesture. She’s turncoat to the topside’s topsy-turvy etiquette expected of game girls. Haunted, she broods her hunted selves.
[from the Antioch Review, Winter 2010]