Accidental Purchase
Scented tampons:
We aren’t
supposed to use them.
But we are supposed
to use them, because
people aren’t supposed
to know. They’re supposed
to think: fresh roses, talcum powder.
Say hello! to less bleeding. Studied in women
18 to 45 years weighing up to 250 pounds,
an effective low-dose birth control regime.
My friend’s older sister—
the one who told us what
a blow job is, what “69” means—
loiters in the damp high-school
locker room. She reaches
into her shorts, looking for
blood, sees nothing,
hits her own abdomen,
hoping nothing can grow.
25 percent less estrogen than the other
leading brand! Proven to clear most
skin and improve your mood.
This one has iron
to replenish what you’ve lost.
We don’t get it
from the water here—
no copper taste
from the cup in the sink.
This one is a patch,
this one is a shot,
this one stays in you
with only a small chance of attaching
itself, clawlike, to the inside of your body.
Feeling guilty, naked in a pink
paper gown on a cold table:
just make a decision.
Talking about feminism during my lunch break
Your roommate has hung
several articles of hand-washed
clothing I don’t know
the exact purposes of
from the shower door.
Impossibly thin crosses
of artificial fibers—calves to
heels to cold tips:
knee-high nylon socks,
the toes en point, drooping
from the weight of pooled
water.
After washing my hands after
using the toilet, toothpaste
foam filling my mouth,
I edge by
on my way to the sink
careful not
to brush against anything.
During lunch,
over my Tupperwared salad
that has lost its taste
in the refrigerator, you
ask me how I feel about feminism.
What is there to say?
Organ Donor
Your knee rubbed against my wall
and like a carpet burn
gathered the blue
paint. it colored your skin,
reminded me of myself
as a child, not old enough
to carry a pocketknife,
rubbing a wooden popsicle stick against
hard brick, making its round point
sharp, not sharp enough,
sharper, until it was worn
down and my knuckles
scraped against the wall.
I warned you
and you still whittled
away, at the corners of me first:
fingertips, elbows, ankle bones.
I loved you
but you would have cored
me like an apple
you would have gulped
me like your last beer
and it would not have been
enough.
Jackie Sherbow lives in Queens and works in NYC as an editor for two genre-fiction magazines.