the bus ride home
a poem about the ever-present male gaze. nominated for the national voices medal out of 3,500 submissions. also received a gold key from the scholastic art and writing awards.
“You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”
—Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride
legs crossed in
spineless angel’s pose
fabric, lily-white,
clinging to
smooth skin
to tempt is
not to be tempting.
it is to wander,
unwittingly
yet
willingly,
in their midst.
ample flesh
they scorn on
their daughters;
on the bus ride home,
exposed skin
is a reprieve
look at how
she sits,
radiating girlhood’s obscenity.
lips pursed in cupid’s bow
chew the bottom one
ever-so-slightly;
enticing and mysterious,
had a long day at work,
now bask in the sensuality
soaked with perspiration
from tennis practice
most likely
is it not more
exciting to
imagine sinful activity?
for big brother is watching you;
the big brothers of your friends,
the weathered man in the corner-stop
with a cane in his hands,
pastor, pediatrician, passengers
and bus driver too;
gaze so-present
gaze so-real
until you close your eyes,
open them again, and
they
all
disappear.
how long have you been home
viewing yourself
through their deluded, leery lens;
falling prey to
ingrained barbarities;
how long have you been home
repulsed by your own imagination,
not entirely far from reality.
​