A Well-Bred Bitch

By Amy Thomson

“Here, let me explain…”
the sweet mating call
penetrates her
slowly steaming silence.
intellectual peacock
feathers flare.
Eyebrows raise,
face feigns interest,
reacts with contrived courtesy.
The teapot screams on mute.
His facts are wrong.
This is my field.
How do his lungs hold so much breath?
A well-bred bitch
swallows opposition,
washed down with blood
from biting her tongue.
A well-bred bitch
digs valleys
with nothing but fingernails,
peels cuticles
like Thanksgiving yams.
A well-bred bitch
remembers to nod
as his drones cut
the bitter cocktail
of condescension.
A well-bred bitch
serves soft smiles for dinner,
not chilled facts from the fridge.
For a well-bred bitch
is aware of the fragile
china in front of her,
passed down through generations.
One wrong touch
and it shatters.
She prefers IKEA.



By Amy Thomson

Can I get a revolution with a side of fries, please?
Can I get a transformation, hold the fucking lies, please?
Can I get a reformation, choke it down with my rage?
Can I get some dedication so we make the same wage?
We’re radical, original, principal, and pivotal.
Constitution, restitution, institution, execution.
Politicians in my pussy, white men talking ovaries.
Baby saviors run the clinics, armed with beaded rosaries.
Are we stupid for demanding bodily autonomy
when our tits and asses run this Free Market Economy?
“Sit down, baby baby, you’re so cute when you’re mad.”
“Calm down, baby baby, ditch this women power fad.”
“Smile for me, baby baby, strut that ass down the street.”
“Shake it for me, baby baby, you’re my fucking piece of meat.”
Exist, resist, assist, persist.
Exist, resist, assist, persist.



Societal Cancer

By Amy Thomson

It’s everywhere.

Down the street,

Smile beautiful,
Smile baby,
Smile bitch.

On the bus,
eyes crawl my skin,
like fire ants.

In the news,
my pussy
public debate.

At the bar
hawk eyes
guard my drink.

In the schools,
voice muted,
Don’t be a showoff.

At the office,
I take charge,
I’m a bitch,
or fucking the boss, of course.

My one purpose
but don’t be a whore.

It seeps into
the hairline cracks
of society.

Rapid metastasis,
it feasts on
the dreams of young girls.

I occupy
too much space,
not just my ass on a park bench,

but my shrill, whiny voice
to be heard.

Hear me shout,
Hear me yell,
Hear me scream,
For I am one of the lucky ones.

My white shield
protects me from bullets,

My spry limbs
allow me to fight,

My zip code
lets me write this poem,

My identity
saves my life.

I’m still just a woman.