Regular Poem: Spinster vs. Bachelor

11 Apr

Sometimes
I identify myself
as a spinster
when I’m in a
mood
or more usually
when I want to be especially
spiteful and
obtuse.

It’s really not all that
accurate.

I’m not
moneyed and prudish, an heiress
with a broken heart and a broken engagement
a dusty Ivy League degree
and several cats
living in a dilapidated family manse
lamenting what might have been.

I guess
I could be the
white trash
version of same, if we’re
looking at a checklist
or a dichotomous key.
I certainly
have analogous features.

But I’m really
more of a bachelor.
How many classical spinsters
sing love songs to their hammocks?
daydream about El Caminos?
own convertibles and Glocks?
have pizza and beer with their work buddies on Thursday nights?

But on the other hand,
how many spinsters do we know?
Really know?
Beyond their fabled and occasionally grotesque
appearances in literature?

Maybe a spinster is just
an old-timey bachelor.
A pre-feminism woman
oppressed by language
into relinquishing her
perceived agency
in a patriarchal bargain
for her independence and
a chance to live
blessedly alone.

So maybe
I’m a spinster,
or maybe
I’m a bachelor,
or maybe
I’m not into labels
and just want to be left
in my hammock
with a glass of wine.

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