Ode to the Mannequin, The True Feminist

I see you.

Dramatic cadaver queen,

no strut, prominent and street-wise

behind window graffiti tags  

like a gala party

no one is invited to. 

 

Damn, 

I see you

naked corpse zombie, 

unconcerned 

while they dress you

up in frilly pink garb, laced 

back corsets welcoming

gawking passersby.

 

I see you there, 

amputated arms 

make 

you 

bite sized and tiny, 

a swallowable fashionista

call

    it 

feminine.

 

Still 

you stand

like a dogface soldier 

saying “go 

gift my limbs to strangers on 

the corner,

wrap them up 

tight in pale 

pastel ribboned boxes

and invite everyone inside.”

 

I see you and  

breathe,

One. 

Two. 

Three.

 

For the I times I have been catcalled,

that two step calamity serenading at dark, 

for hand-me-down hoodie armor shielding my frame, 

for freeing one headphone tryna side step that 

shimmie shake “hey you” 

boom boom 

    make me “pocket sized” squeezed into pepper spray cans, 

call

    it 

getting home safe. 

           

Damn, I see you.

    To be an unmovable 

riot watcher.