I.  Reminiscences of a Fly-Girl

When the friendly skies were full of virgins,
I was one of them—naive, addled,
benighted as a parakeet emerging
from its covered cage.  I’d been re-modeled:
my college pleats and plaids had been replaced
by a mock-military fitted suit
and soldier-cap—utterly chaste,
yet so erotic, so forbidden-fruit,
I was the concubine inside the head 
of every traveling salesman on the plane.
He’d have me stripped and bouncing into bed
with him, bearing my bottles of champagne
with giggles and conspiratorial wink—
all this before I’d poured a single drink.

II.  Porter Powell’s Wife

All this, before I’d even poured his drink:
the swift removal of his coat, a match
to light his cigarette; a moist, pale pink
lipsticky kiss; one moment more to fetch
the Wall Street Journal.  Then his Crown
Royal (rocks, splash, twist), a rack of lamb,
his monologue du jour (the putting down
of one more office coup) ad nauseam
while I provide encouraging remarks,
followed by my mentioning the bank
and how they called today about some checks
that didn’t clear.  I watch his eyes go blank.
He drops his fork, rises from his place
and slaps me, hard, three times across the face.
					
III.  Celebrity’s Mother

I’ve slapped myself three times across the face,
so I know it’s not a dream, I swear—
my babygirl has really won first place
in the beauty pageant at State Fair.
Look how she slinks on those high heels,
cranks her little hips just like a pro
down that runway—honey, she’s on wheels,
she’s headed for the Johnny Carson show.
Come on, sweetheart, talk a little louder,
bat those lashes, lick your lips a lot;
make your poor old mama even prouder—
grab for what your mama never got.
Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Maidenform!
Just watch my baby take the world by storm.

IV.  Sixteen

I didn’t want to take the world by storm—
just hoped to be a wife and mom someday,
but I’ve blown it all to kingdom come  
because this boy and I went all the way.
I can’t imagine what got into me
(except for him, of course) because I’m smart,
I know how boys will hold you close and cry
and make up stories that you take to heart 
before they drop you like a shoe—and smirk
at you for buying into all their shit.
I guess I’m just another dirty joke,
a stupid nympho they can laugh about.  
I never was a bargain anyhow,
but nobody would ever want me now.

V.  George and Vera Carter’s Wonderful Daughter

Nobody will ever want me more
than my sullen, shrinking parents do; 
they think the very fact that I was born
proves I owe them both a thing or two.
So I’ve become the daughter that they crave—
a loyal and obedient retainer
who brings them what they need to stay alive
and well—from laxatives to Sunday dinner.
I listen to them re-arrange the past
to suit themselves (their favorite diversion)
and see to it they fall asleep at last,
allowing me an evening for submersion
in that alarming book I bought last week:
something called The Feminine Mystique.
								
VI.  The Block-Watcher

You could call it a feminine mistake,
that thing my neighbor did—her moving out
like that.  At night!  She didn’t even take
her clothes; just her hat and overcoat,
some books, and boom!—she’s out the door.
Just drove away without a word to Bob—
because she knew he meant it when he swore
that he would never let her get a job.
I guess she thinks her fancy education
entitles her to some sort of “career”,
like that bunch from Women’s Liberation
who bellyache and burn their underwear.
But if you ask me, she’s acting like a brat,
throwing away her happiness like that.

VII.  Mrs. McKinney Looks Back

I’ve thrown away my happiness, like that
old crone in the fairy tale.  I’m frail
and shriveled now—and haunted by the thought
of what I might have been, had I been male:
I’d probably have taken center stage
in some exciting, world-altering dance.
But it’s been such a stupefying age
for women. No one cared whether we flounced
or crawled through all the tragicomic phases
of our lives— we nearly always played
our grand theatricals to empty houses.
But I can’t blame the men. They understood
the world was theirs, with all of its diversions—
just look: the skies are filled with friendly virgins!