Nine Women Poets
Volume 16:4, Fall 2015
Song of My Spasm
There is a sound in my spine,
that chimes like nervous laughter
and rattles like a shaking hand.
Fingers contorted
in skeletal trapeze
pain ringing
from the base of my
shoulder like a gong,
quaking through a chorus of tremors
that harmonizes in the middle of my neck.
For all this discord,
one moment of music.
Sex Hex
I hate the swayback in my back,
I hate the hair on my chin,
I hate the callused bones on the sides
of my feet. I didn’t ask for a dick. I won’t
touch anyone. I won’t gush or rise when you
look at me, I will hide my face and look up
with the eyes of an ape. I can get wet.
I could take off my clothes right now,
I’ve been able to put my shoes on and
take them off for two years now. The straps
are worn and I haven’t seen you in a while,
the pleasure is all mine.
Home: Dipshit Pond Court
Cold November,
rain sideways,
deer leap
past gazebos.
Mornings
hang like frost
on finger
joints. Sunrise
warms elbows,
red pines
rustle in skull.
Dark green walls,
stained glass,
Antibiotics,
alcohol,
Robitussin,
Percocet,
television,
dreamcatcher.
Goodnight.
Photo by Mignonette Dooley, 2009.
Uterus
You, uterus
You left me hanging.
Why would you
do that?
In the middle of
every month,
I get irritable,
bloated, fatigued,
emotional,
achy all over,
but I don’t bleed.
I’ll never carry children,
dead or living. I wouldn’t
if I’d been born with you,
but you don’t care about that,
do you? You’re just a
bloodless reminder of where
I came from and where I’m going.
Tyler Vile is the author of a novel-in-verse, Never Coming Home (Topside Press, 2015). She is a founding member of Hinenu: The Baltimore Justice Shtiebl, a radically inclusive synagogue. Her work has appeared in Femmescapes, Rogue Agent, Gadfly, Bluestockings Magazine, and The Bicycle Review, and in the anthology Resilience. Her interactive poetry zine, Hassidic Witch Murderer, is available on her website, tylervile.wordpress.com.