If Great Women From History Had Emails
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But Her Emails: A Ghazal
My mother needed to sleep—but her emails,
those prayers for anything but her emails.
Marie Curie, with her husband’s electrometer,
the x-ray machines that showed what? Her emails.
And the pastor in Detroit, who shot Keanna
just because she wanted to strut her emails.
I know why the sky ate Amelia’s plane—
before take-off, she neglected to jut her emails.
When Broadway applause came for Lorraine,
the FBI started to watch her, tried to smut her emails.
Monica, those bangs and red matte pout, collared
shirts pouring over with baby fat. Slut! HER emails!
In Puerto Rico, Luisa was first to go out in pants,
but was jailed cuz a lady should shut her emails.
She had to go to the stake, you see. I mean Joan. Nuts.
Raided her computer and they were nuts, her emails.
Sojourner is a woman without my saying it, but after
her speech a white lady still wanted to gut her emails.
A new Genesis: after she’s slashed from Adam’s rib,
Eve takes God’s scissors to cut her emails.
That Lindsay, can’t she write some happy shit?
Read this and you’ll want to tut-tut her emails.
Precious Blood Fire
On the Feast of Corpus Christi, May 27th, 1875, Precious Blood church in Holyoke, Massachusetts
burned down. Seventy-eight people died, 55 of them women and girls.
Those logs we carved and stacked into worship became
fire and smoke as they birthed their bark backwards.
We know this now: woman is not the flame
that breathed deeper than our corseted lungs could.
And if you drift like ash over your shoulder—
past the hose spray, the scorch of skin, the human
pile near the door we couldn’t shoulder—
you’ll hear us sing of wheat among the ruins.
You’ll see us turn to the Blessed Virgin bust
and gasp when a breeze lifts through the window,
kicks up the lace around her head. One gust
will flit the veil into a candle’s billow.
You’ll see us grasp for prayers to recite.
You’ll see how fast a woman’s prayer ignites.