She finds herself all by herself in bed,
a web of sunshine on the downy sheet,
a wedding day of bells inside her head,
a layer of cream upon her skin, her feet
still sore from twenty years of love and toil,
yet she thinks that life’s been pretty good.
She hears the bacon sizzle, coffee boil
inside the dented pot of spinsterhood.
She has survived the cold and loneliness
of her decisions, and of her mistakes,
proud of her three degrees, no less
than of her freedom. And yet something rakes
her heart inside and leaves her all a mess
and only she herself knows how it aches.
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Male Supremacism in the United States?
The Pornographers Who (Said They) Fought for Freedom of Expression
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