The Thick of the Real World
In the thick of it all, it is always the women. The muse to the flame; the untouchable; the staple of our self-help culture. We combine the masculine conventions; we fold it over neatly; like a shirt in a drawer – carefully to nip the creases before they cause a fold. We try not to be melodramatic; planting our heroines in attainable truths; compostable flower-pots.
We are a conflicted genre: a hybrid of long-suffering and va-va-voom. Forget the familial betrayals; what fits the description is the un-sparingness of the breast. The way it nourishes and patronizes [doesn’t it?] So many stories about women in houses; women out of houses; women in and out of love – we should open a shop and fill it with Kleenex and booze.
It’s not a mystery – being female. We are all uncloistered now: free. Use us sparingly before we become less-honest; indecent; less-sacrificial. In the thick of it all: there will always be a longstanding attraction here in our shape and form. There is so much youthful enthusiasm in every woman’s pinky. Watch me call you over. Watch me.
© Umansky 2011
blog of poet, leah umansky 
Brava.