Girl Forbid
Written by blog staff editor Carina Kohn and edited by our editor-in-chief Stephanie O.!
Today I’m listening to what you call girl music.
I flower girl pedal to the metal
in my Nissan Girl Gone Rogue to girl guitar
class—college level with finger-grabbing
girl bar chords on the girl fretboard.
Today girl leaves throw themselves
from orange trees and trail the road behind me as
if fire from my little-girl-down-the-aisle basket is
tearing up the street under tired girl wheels.
Today I’m listening to what you call girl music
in your boy way. You can’t hear a thing
outside my girl car except the bitch pitch pop
and that’s enough. I park in my girl spot
in the girl lot and click onto girl ground.
Decadent decay all around me, in a girly way.
Today after class at the corner girl bar
on Main Girl St., I get dizzygritty on girl vodka
with cranberry cocktail, girl cherry stem, and
gosh, it’s too girly in the A.M. to be doing tongue!
In truth we aren’t girl and boy but newly minted
twenties, which really means I pedal my woman car
to your man house in Queens to woman rehearse. I
woman touch the steering wheel I have yet to lower
to my womanchest which would prevent
my woman airbag from hitting me in my woman face
and crack my woman nose, Girl Forbid, no, not today.
Today I’m in a woman band with you and three other men.
But it’s not a woman band to you or to them. It’s only
everything I touch, for a while.
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