Poetry by Melinda Blount

Penis Envy

I was tired of being a woman,
tired of the spoons and the pots,
tired of my mouth and my breasts,
tired of the cosmetics and the silks.

Anne Sexton, ‘Consorting With Angels’

Rumble, as I twirl thoughts
with a tongue, dry
waiting while Anne leads me through
my feelings with her obsession with bones,
like the phallic symbolism
of Parisian landmarks, and even
Our Lady of Guadalupe can be shoved
in the gap between my legs-

it’s the pressure of bowing, bent waists
and twists, 10 steps and his back proves
only the face has presence. It’s in
the kitchen walls, washing machines
and swollen feet- push and pull
tug of war with Samson- I always lose.
When broken hands tame masculine
moments, leers become a norm. It
isn’t truth until a man writes it down,
in history books where even Cleopatra
learned her lesson, roman legions crashed
against her door. It’s all relative

the paternal lean, mankind dreams
of salvation from a father’s heart
and they’ve only freed our male
counterparts, while the goddess image
continues to struggle on the bindings
of our own making. Press me flat
into paper cut outs and draw my lines from
the blood that gushes my shame. I am woman-
ball and chain, the old lady waiting
hoyden that brings temp-
tation to the average worker,
blacklisted, short-shorts and tits
expected to suck dick to earn paychecks.
Eating upon silver plates with an apple
stuck between my teeth.

Tired, sworn, pushed onto walls
to placate lies. Fist
fucked and I can only scream,
just one of the weak creatures
that fall into disgrace
by tales strung to explain
just why the moon controls our flux;

boxed like manufactured cars- latched
together and pulled along, I am now
the exact replica of those that came
before, no more narcissistic than
my maternal line, material-
istic and Daddy played mind games
with a daughter that laughed
on bounced knees and believed

she was just as good as the next guy.

Reduced to a Delilah, Lilith, the rolled
equation of all that has been trapped before
and my breath stinks from years of swallowing
pride to live beneath, chase the sun caught only
in cut glass vases, the bended light that
breaks in eyes unaccustomed

while my tears trade insults
with my penis envy.


July 4, 2006


It’s impotent, again.

Wading through the Sunday paper
just to get to the obituaries
for something interesting to read-
drinking coffee, black pitch
to line my stomach
(and I might end up regurgitating, later
to feed the toilet, which won’t quit running);

it’s all broken plumbing and death notices
while his dick lies against his leg
looking pathetic. Again.
Time to rub one off, spread out across
the arm chair, particularly fetching in
sweats ran through with mouse holes.

Rocking horse sits lonesome
in the corner, weekend rides over
and their daddy’s new wife is complaining, again.
The child support payment’s late this week
(guess I should of told them I’m laid off?)
and she can’t feed her face at the local
buffet. Her face contorted in rage, “You fucking whore”-

man, isn’t she eloquent?


(The Christian Caller)

He says I’m going to hell-
the door to door jesus pusher,
that is. I asked him if I pray
will Jesus fix my goddamn toilet?
Explained to me about the miracles
of Christ, while I asked if he
could hurry- I was in the middle
of masturbating when he knocked his
faith against my door. Wouldn’t
shake my hand after that, but
offered me a pamphlet about how
his church does great things.

I laughed.

I hope he comes back.


It’s evening, again- while I lay
cat curled on the sofa and waiting;
cock my head to better listen to the night
bellow a welcome, and his arm is draped
across my waist. Pizza boxes made into make-
shift homes for the flies and his half drank
bottle of Gatorade launched at the rabbit, trying
to make a mess on my koolaid stained carpet;

we turn our attention to the T.V.-
sit in silence while Will Smith battles
intergalactic enemies. The fourth of July
brings out the cheesy in America
but we love it, regardless. While the rabbit
finds the newspaper scattered on the kitchen
floor and finishes his business, probably
all over the obituaries. And I smile.


One response to “Poetry by Melinda Blount

  1. They always paint us as whores..

    yet they want, need and tug at us..

    write on poet..

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