[Womxn are making the food], Cara Blouin

Womxn are making the food
Womxn are staying late
Womxn got here early
Womxn have just always been early risers
Womxn brought extra
Womxn are letting you use theirs
It’s no problem
Womxn are making the lesson plan because they couldn’t really teach with this one
Womxn are keeping the books
Womxn have it in a google doc
Womxn are making sure we get a photo while everyone is together
Womxn are emailing everyone about the reunion
Womxn are emailing everyone about the party
Womxn are figuring out how we’re all going to get there
Womxn are checking to make sure you have a ride
Womxn are walking you into the stairwell when you cry
Womxn are listening to your idea
Womxn are editing your proposal
Womxn don’t know how to write a grant but they are figuring it out and writing a grant
Womxn are making sure there are enough chairs
Womxn are making sure everyone gets to speak
Womxn are doing it in their free time
Womxn are listening to your story
Womxn are sending a reminder email about the trip
Womxn are telling you your strengths
Womxn are cleaning up the mess
Womxn are smiling through their fear
Womxn are getting up and finding another seat
Womxn are protecting your feelings
Womxn know, they know, but if they don’t do it it’s not going to get done
Womxn have a minute, sure, sit down, they’re just eating lunch
Womxn are repairing your soul
Womxn are giving feedback on your novel
Womxn are setting up the space
Womxn are concealing their rage
Womxn will do this one for you pro bono
Womxn are calling to see if you got the email about the trip
Womxn are remembering birthdays
Womxn understand why you’re acting that way
Womxn can see it from your side
Womxn can empathize
Womxn have time, sure

“For the Record,” Audre Lorde

In memory of Eleanor Bumpers

Call out the colored girls
and the ones who call themselves Black
and the ones who hate the word nigger
and the ones who are very pale

Who will count the big fleshy women
the grandmother weighing 22 stone
with the rusty braids
and gap-toothed scowl
who wasn’t afraid of Armageddon
the first shotgun blast tore her right arm off
the one with the butcher knife
the second blew out her heart
through the back of her chest
and I am going to keep writing it down
how they carried her body out of the house
dress torn up around her waist
past tenants and the neighborhood children
a mountain of Black Woman
and I am going to keep telling this
if it kills me
and it might in ways I am

The next day Indira Gandhi
was shot down in her garden
and I wonder what these two 67-year old
colored girls
are saying to each other now
planning their return
and they weren’t even