That’s What She Said

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That’s What She Said

Every single day,
every single goddamned day,
the poetry stats fall

flat, flat as a pancake
(that’s called a cliche, and should
never be used in a poem).

Which makes you wonder—
Is it me? Probably. Is it
poetry? Probably. Is it the nonlegit

blog delivery system, the lack
of “real” publication, the illiterate “times,”
the length (that’s what

she said), the scatological humor,
or lack thereof on days
when I wish I could give more

of a shit? Probably.
Then, I think of Emily Dickinson’s
underwear—it isn’t hard (that’s what she

said). But, trust me, don’t
Google that. Those blessed chemises
and functional, open-crotch

drawers with enough fabric to wear
to Walmart, which, of course,
she would never do.

Those animated underclothes! Let Disney
charm them into homely
sisters—waiting for each fascicle

like a Prince. Then, Emily’s only
and intimate readers will frantically thumb
pages and gasp in the glory

of That’s what she said. That’s what
she said. That’s—
dear God—what—she—said.


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