The Slant

The slant
a bullding settling around me
my figure female
framed crookedly
in the threshhold of the room
doors scraping floorboards
with every opening carving
a rough history of bedroom scenes
the plot hard to follow
the text obscured
in the folds of sheets slowly gathering the stains
of seasons spent lying there
red and brown like leaves falling
the colors of an eternal cycle fading
like the wash cycle
and the rinse cycle
again an unfamiliar smell
like my name mispelled or misspoken
a cycle broken.
The sound of them strong stalking
talking about their prey
the way hammer meets nail
pounding they say
pounding out the rhythms of attraction
like a woman was a drum
like a body was a weapon
like there was something more they wanted
than the journey
like it was owed to them
steel toed they walk and I'm wondering
why this fear of men.
Maybe it's because I'm hungry
and like a baby
I'm dependent on them
to feed me
I am a work in progress
dressed in the fabric
of a world unfolding
offering me intricate patterns of questions
rhythms that never come clean
and strengths that you still haven't seen.

~Ani Difranco, "Ani Difranco", 1990