Martha Rhodes
When I see a woman
strutting her bikini,
I strip her of it
and shove her
into the freezing
Atlantic, tied into
a canvas sack
I’ve weighted down.
The bikini is in my hands
and I bury it, evidence,
in a migrating dune I determine
the next hurricane that hits
the eastern shore will wash away.
A fox might dig it up before then
and run with it into the sea
and out, all day, in and out,
dropping it finally, shredded,
unrecognizable. When I see
a woman before the store mirror
admiring her own form, I remember,
in a lemon yellow room, an oval wall mirror
and a young teen girl on the floor,
naked, her legs bent and spread,
afraid to look, so shy, but looking,
peering into, (imagining), her future.