FOR GLORIA STEINEM

by Bonnie Proudfoot

Image by James Housand via Shutterstock

Goddam the boss’ hands,

the father’s tantrums, 

the mother’s tears, goddam

the glass ceiling, the broken

feeling, the casting couch 

and teacher’s pet, the face

slap, the butt pat, Phyllis Schlaffly

and June Cleaver, goddam

the eyes that stared at my

chest when I gave it my best,

the shoulder shrug, the what’s

it to you, the quid pro quo, the

that’s how it go, the go along

to get along, the pecking order,

the firing line, the patronizing,

the patriarchy, the aspirations,

the late ratifications, just

pass the damn Equal Rights

Amendment, and then

for the love of Gloria, Betty,

Bella, Shirley, and Dolly,

enforce the damn thing.

 

Bonnie Proudfoot used to read MS magazine as soon as it came out every month for free in the bookstore in the student union at the University of Buffalo. She pretended she was browsing. It was life-changing.

IN THE TIME OF MAD MEN: 1960-1969

by Sharon Lask Munson

She doesn’t laugh when he proclaims
before their wedding
he will be the one
to bring in the money, dole it out.
All he expects in return—
three meals a day
and a lot of you know what.

If it were ten years later
she might have read
Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique
or Kate Millet’s Sexual Politics,
might have seriously questioned
her choice of a mate.

Eventually breakfasts of bacon and eggs
turn into cheerios and cold milk.
Still, she sets up, dishes out, pours.

In due course she finds a job
refuses to hand over her paycheck—
continues with meals, irons his shirts
empties ashtrays, plants roses, dahlias
deals with the plumber when the sink clogs,
the construction guy for the new thermal windows

until early one morning,
as the bleached sun
bursts through gray smoky clouds
she walks out of the house
leaving her key in the lock

ignores the morning paper
tossed on the porch,
takes no notice of
milk in the milk chute
beginning to sour.

No note is left on the mantle,
no witness driving by takes notice,
no neighbor glances
from behind lace curtains

and like Harry Houdini’s escape act—
she squares her shoulders,
tightens her grip on a small valise,
quickens her pace
and disappears into tomorrow.


Sharon Lask Munson is the author of the chapbook Stillness Settles Down the Lane (Uttered Chaos Press, 2010) and a full-length book of poems That Certain Blue (Blue Light Press, 2011).  She lives and writes in Eugene, Oregon.