I grew up wanting to be
Bette Davis, shaking the tar
out of boys who fenced me in
with insult, sexual insult.
I pictured myself shaking them,
their bodies falling through
space, nothing to stop them.
I came up with insults
to hurl back, packing language
into an iceball aimed at their heads,
said nothing. Oh,
how I could tell them off now.
In my sixties. Some are dead.
Most probably don’t remember me.