Raised on fairy tales with beautiful, innocent heroines, but denied
credibility as beautiful, how could I be rescued? Wait to be kissed, wisdom
whispered, wait for some faultless Apollonian boyfriend to notice
your winsome smile. Let him comment upon your charms
without taking too much offence; let him speak of masculinity’s lameness
and of his feminist reading habits. The right man will win your
heart with litigation against the patriarchy. Reasons make some men
disingenuous; so in your defence: the man you can’t resist is not the
one you love. Demonstrate cis-girl’s grace, let men half your size dominate
small talk about your expertise. The right man will form your superheroine
fan club, organizing desire for the radical change aesthetics
you’ll someday sell for disgraceful bank. Let innocent white women
get trophy-wed, your skill is willpower. Acquaintances will rape you
and you will strangle hatred and look at the strangler’s beauty; you
will be sent away from the pretty walks and interiors of matrimony;
the good man will guess the hymen-sweet beloved name that no man
before has hallowed. Well. Lest I too much profane the idea of romance,
I should explain. I don’t think courtship is wrong. And the
apex of human interplay, scaled through the fore and surge of libidinal
acquaintance, is also poetry’s swell. But for this sweet marriageability
there is no hero. I’ve supported myself while listening for the
vow that would be worth tipping the balance I’ve cultivated. For my
bond I muse and wait, and never love him who demythologizes husband,
but doesn’t undress hate.

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)