Charlotte Perkins Gilman Has a Gin and Tonic with Monica Lewinsky
Hillary Smith-Maddern
When a man says he will hurt you,
believe him. It is not in the words of it
exactly, but the way his mouth curls, bares yellow
teeth that start to feel like home.
He will try to bury you and blame you
for the dirt you kick up. Sweet girl, you can plant
tulips or nightshade with the same unnoticed
effort. Use your hands to dig up the truth, smear it
across the pristine carpet and the uplit columns.
The story can change without warning, but you are always cast
as villain. Shoulder that stained dress like a musket
and aim true. He will point his finger, sputter
excuses, call you crazy—and maybe you are—
or maybe being a woman is a nightmare
you're expected to praise. My sweet, you are not
defined by the rooms you brighten with your smile,
but by the walls you rip apart with bloodied fingers.
You get to choose how you unravel.
So, babe, let the world know this man wanted you
and you wanted power.
Let him lay Big Macs at the altar
of his southern charm. Eat the cake
so loud the crumbs rattle in his ears. Love,
when your body is the effigy,
you burn along with it.
Hillary Smith-Maddern is an educator whose work explores the intersections of identity, nature, and social dynamics. She is a proud cat owner and an avid collector of neglected plants. When not writing, she can be found exploring obscure topics, hiking in the mountains, or passionately critiquing the patriarchy. Her poetry has appeared in Only Poems, Rogue Agent, and The Disappointed Housewife, among others. She lives in Western Massachusetts.
