It is impossible to talk to a man
about anything less than happy emotions.
No wonder the ads have women visually purring,
“Ooh, this is wonderful!” all the time.
Anything else would be taken as criticism
of the almighty fragile male ego
that needs constant stroking to stay upright.
The minute a woman needs anything
from a man that he doesn’t feel he can provide
as hero of his own narrative
is the second all turns to him being upset
that he feels like a loser
because he can’t make you happy.
And it all becomes about him.
Somehow, whatever he did that hurt you
is used against you:
“You’re always looking for something to indict me.”
You were naked and vulnerable with your feelings,
hoping for some care,
only to have him dress you up in some judge’s robes
that don’t really fit and, indeed, chafe.
You go to bed only to be met with indifference,
hoping to be noticed as possibly more interesting
than phone or book,
but unless he wants physical intimacy,
all you get is waiting tension
that coils and releases
only when you hear him snoring.
So don’t bother sharing your feelings with a man;
you’ll only catch grief
at not being able to be vulnerably seen and heard.
Go talk to a friend instead and just use him for a good shag
without any expectations of emotional intimacy.
Stay removed, or make your own way without him
and when he’s shocked that you’ve left, show him this.
Then maybe you can school him in patriarchal privilege
that’s provided endless female emotional surrogates,
keeping him infantile, and tell him you understand
why he’s feeling clueless at all this talk of an inner life.
Because, truth is, you do. And you feel sorry for him,
but not enough to excuse him anymore
from doing the work needed to be a whole human being.
Of course, he’ll dismiss this as from an angry woman,
a sad one, really, who needs a good man
to shelter her in this cruel, cruel world
but who can’t expect to find one
who’ll live with the likes of her
who doesn’t smile like Donna Reed
while vacuuming in heels and pearls.
But you will be sashaying, head high, beads atwirl,
down a gaslit boulevard lined with live oaks,
surreal in the dawn’s early fog,
to catch a streetcar named Desire
or Elysium Fields, to the faint sounds
of a Mardi Gras parade in the distance
of Ash Wednesday’s long-gone expiation.