Uppity Bovine I'm in the china shop, my glasshooves chanting. I clip and clop and rub my rump along the antiques
behaving like hay after first thaw. I've had to compose myself twice. Once, when I couldn't lick the grass
or flowers off the teacups. Then again, when I was herded deeper and deeper. Each tail-twitch brings grief to the
owner who raises a hand to his forehead wondering Why is she here? Who let her in? My snortings only make it
worse. Can't he see these aisles are too narrow for turning—that I'll probably have to go all the way through?
A Woman Bleaches Cotton Fabrics Offshore The woman in the wide vat bleaches fabric hip deep bent toward gobs of fading cotton each a cloud refusing to stay down but someone half an ocean off needs white sailcloth more than life itself what is there now but this fading to the color of the snowy egret billowing past the open window and she’s told she was given hands and arms to bleach the souls of distant boats the wind cracking their sails the sails specks on an ocean much smaller than she’d imagined
A Girl Like Me for Malala Yousafzai Let’s be sure I’ve got this right— I am standing, say, in a certain place. My place. At a certain time. And I’m a certain sex and you have a gun. I disagree with you over whether I could learn something. Did I mention you have a gun and you’re afraid of what will happen if I don’t keep quiet about the thing we disagree on and go away? Then you can raise your gun, take aim at my head, a tug of your index finger settling in your head the disagreement between us. Next, you can turn and walk away. I can crumple and be changed. You can have dinner, then go to sleep, somehow, and somehow I can, after much pain and repair, leave my place, move to another where it’s less certain I’ll be shot for believing I could learn something. Now, do I have this right?