My nickname, scrawled
on the picture of a naked woman
on her knees.
The shame.

Little things.

 


 

It’s the chubby fourth grade boy
who hollered “fat four eyes”.
I wear contacts, suck
in my stomach, don’t recognize
the thin woman in the mirror.

The bully who snapped
my training bra, bellowed,
“You’re growing ‘em.”
swaggered away sniggering.
My shoulders slumped, permanently.

The surprise vagrant
who displayed his penis
pulsing pink and proud.
I still see it in my sleep.

The law students on the roof
of their men’s only lair
who rated females zero to ten.
I knew I’d never have my dream job.

The principal
who called me a blonde
fluff brain, comment retracted,
remembered, repeated, believed.

The custodian who queried,
“How long does it take
to shave those strapping legs?”
Flirted with ten year old beauties
who never had a chance.
My dusty, cold office, after my report.

The obstetrician who opined
gaining weight while pregnant
is “How cute little girls lose
their husbands.”
The diet.

The doctor who destroyed blissful
first moments with my newborn child,
announced he’d added an extra
stitch for the husband.
The pain.

My nickname, scrawled
on the picture of a naked woman
on her knees.
The shame.

Little things.

 


Bev Fesharaki is an educator/poet who is a member of Inscape Poetry in Tacoma and Sundays with Van Goth in Seattle. Her work has been published by Indolent books, Moria, 3Elements Review and other journals as well as in an anthology, “Women Writing:On the Edge of Dark and Light.” Bev lives and writes in Mukilteo, Washington.

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