Bitch Ghazal
by Jo Blair Cipriano
In the straight man’s fantasy, I die nameless. Sweetie. Baby. Bitch.
I ask for it by not asking. Mind my business, but if a bitch
is hungry, I’ll lap whatever you’ve got off the floor. Yes,
even that. Maybe it’s fast. Eager. But I’m just a poor bitch
kneeling before an appendage, asking it not to kill her. Don’t act
like you’re scared of blood: if I met your mom, asked a bitch
how you got here, she’d say I don’t remember but god,
what a mess. Go ahead, ask if childbirth was worth some little bitch
calling her mama. Ask her about regret. In an Alabama airport, another man
wonders aloud what my ass tastes like before I bathe at night. His imaginary tub, itching
to lick me clean. On the tv above, a hog named Pigcasso makes art
holding a brush in her snout. When ignored, bath-guy doesn’t call me “bitch”
but “fat pig.” If I lived in this state, I couldn’t have an abortion where I’m safe
like this, dismembered in some old man’s fantasy. My resting bitch
face is my friend. She holds me in place, remembers the stranger
jacking off in his truck who, through glass, mouthed my name: Slut.
She’s not surprised at the variation. One limb at a time
we remind each other who we are. Oh, Baby. Sweetie. A bitch
is still alive. I sing and elms begin to shed. Yes. Even in summer. Say it:
painted nails through dead leaves sound so beautiful, bitch.