Little Girls

I have always been defined as a little girl. Even as I age people still look down at me. This is a poem about the dangers and expectations for little girls.

Little Girls


Little girls should stay at home
There’s danger on the street
Man move to walk beside them
Protect them from shadowy figures
with dark thoughts haunting
their wandering hands

Little girls should work
behind high, impressive desks
The real fighting’s for the men
who can shoulder hard words
While pretty hands can type busywork
and keep their smiles clean

Little girls should stay at home
and tend to little ones new
telling soft stories of simple pleasures
and avoiding all trouble
For trouble can grow terror
that will come for you in the night

Little girls with eyes like yours
must always keep your face down low
You wouldn’t want to catch the eye
of some strange passerby
The grasping of a hungry soul
Little bones so easily crushed

Little girls like you
are backed up in a corner
Too weak to move about
Too pitiful to speak
Little girls like you
have no way out

Coming Soon

This is a poem from the point of view of my father the night before I was born.

Coming Soon


Patti lies upstairs on our bed,
a moat of pillows surrounding the castle
that is her growing belly.
The cats sit on either side, as knights
guarding the hidden treasure
that lies beneath the walls of flesh.
She thinks it’s coming soon.
She’s been more irritable than usual.
More irritable.
She lashes out like the waves
on the lake in a tremendous storm,
while I stand by, the immovable shore,
helplessly soaked.

Little Catey is excited.
I wonder how she understands it.
What she sees when she looks
at her mommy’s wide belly.
She puts her little hands on either side
and lays her head gently against her mother,
closing her eyes,
she breaths.
Can she see it? Does she know?

It will come soon.
Daniel. Carolyn.
Danny. Carrie.
I’d be happy with either.
Either, or. A little boy or girl.
A sister for Catey to play with
or a little boy who I could teach to play
golf with me and carry on my name.

I’m nervous.
I’m not afraid to admit it.
I remember when Little Catey
was on her way.
When we entered the car my hands
shook with such force
that Patti almost demanded to drive.

I’m happy.
I look into Little Catey’s room
and see the little crib and imagin
it full again
with laughter and new smiles.
Little Catey waits at its sides
waiting for her new sibling to appear.
Another child.
Two cats. Two children.
Seems right.

Patti wants another little girl.
She always gets what she wants.
She holds reality in the palm of her hand
much as she holds the baby
in her womb. I suppose
this time will be no different.
A little girl.

Waves Upon My Head

As women, hair defines us. It is our beauty and our blanket. It hides us from the world or it can make us stand out. This is a poem about my journey with mine.

Waves Upon My Head


When I was young my mother
didn’t know how to tame my wild curls.
She would brush and brush,
while my hair would frizz and frizz
and I grit my teeth and dug
my nails into the wooden chair.
The marks are still there
if you would look for them.

And when I grew a little bit older my hair
grew too. And it fell near my waist
with rippling waves that my mother’s
colleagues called “Princess hair.”
My mother would stroke them as the light
danced and turned my brown locks to gold.

And when I was at the height
of my silly adolescence,
I cut it.
And my mother cried
as they carried my ponytail away.
I thought it would be invigorating, but
when I looked in the mirror I felt
my beauty had gone.
So I never let a sissorces near my hanging treasures
till two years would pass.
I measured them every day,
waiting for them to lengthen and grow
the smile back on my mother’s face.

And now, my hair falls somewhere
in-between, not knowing which way
to grow as I step out into the world
half held back by my mother's grasping hand.
As I pull away and her arm stretches,
fingers holding tight, I wonder if
I even know how to stand.