To All of the Middle-class White Christian Women

To All of the Middle-class White Christian Women
Who Occasionally Consider Your Privilege:

Now you’re talkin about
owning your racism
and owning your classism
and owning your anti-Semitism
and owning your lesbophobia
and I’m supposed to be impressed

and the question I’ve got for you
is just how you plan
to pay for all this stuff you’re owning?
will you use your checking plus account
or cash in a CD
or get the money from daddy
or put it on your VISA?

and what happens
when all of this stuff you’re owning
gets a little old
and out of fashion?
what happens when you go to find something
new and improved
something that works easier
for you?
What then?
You just gonna pitch this stuff?
or you gonna try to sell it
back to us
packaged as our own desire
and try to make a profit for yourselves
in the process?

found in file, undated, probably from 1989 or 1990

Bringing Poetry Off the Page

I’m fascinated by all creative ways writers and artists are using poetry now. Folks are making jewelry, clothing and fabric art, cards and paper art, painting, photographs, and more. I love bringing poetry off the page and into the material world of our daily lives.

A good friend just moved away from Philly, and a group got together to give her a set of Shabbat necessities so their communal shabbos dinners would go with her. They ordered a custom-engraved wood challah tray with a piece of liturgy I created for Fringes: a feminist, non-zionist havurah.

Look how beautiful!

challah tray

Interview on Poetry as Transformation up at Menacing Hedge

Menacing Hedge features mini-interviews with Women Write Resistance poets Kathleen Aguero, Elliott batTzedek, Ann Bracken, Maria Luisa Arroyo and their WWR poems. http://www.menacinghedge.com/summer2013/interview-wwr.php

“If at the end of a poem you are who you were when you started the poem you have not dared to dwell in poetry nor dared to let poetry dwell in you.” – Elliott batTzedek

NaPoMo 30 – In class I learned about

In class I learned about

In class I learned about
class, how all my professors
had all of their fingers

No table-sawed tips
no thumbs numbed under two tons
of crates of Miracle Whip and now dangling
uselessly.

So many lower arms none
having been lost to the second of
having not remembered not to grab the nut
as it slipped into the combine feed

A hook for a hand—be teased
for decades, but no kids ran in fear
of so common place a horror

How easy in class to assume Latin
professors had no fingerprints for they gestured softly with
no soil embedded, permanent tattoos
their finger swirls never fresh-plowed fields

What kind of a life leaves a man’s hands whole?
Hands uncallused, filed clear fingernails,
skin not red and broken by a cold wet wind?