Friday, August 30, 2013


You were hoping
I would feed you bread
warm, moist, yeasty, fragrant,
homemade by my lovely little hands
that somehow stay
miraculously manicured.

You were hoping 
I would bake you cookies 
full of chocolate, nuts and real butter
on shiny aluminum sheets
in a gleaming kitchen kept spotless 
as if by magic.

You were hoping 
I would give you daily
crisp white shirts and
floors so shiny clean 
we wouldn't need plates
just like those ladies on TV.

You were hoping 
I'd stay forever young and firm,
high breasts and flat belly,
effortlessly birthing 
not too many children
without ever mussing my hair
or popping a stretch mark
and Mary Poppins would appear
every time you made plans for us.

You were hoping
I'd prefer garter belts and stockings 
to bare legs, 
braless under silk shirts 
and greet you at the door 
with a new fantasy every night
to be lived out on our
spotless but remarkably
warm and comfortable kitchen floor.

You were hoping 
I would have
a fabulously successful career
and make piles of money,
demolishing the glass ceiling
so you could shine with
benevolent pride at my being
the Mrs. in front of your name.

You were hoping
I'd step into a phone booth
and rip off my clothes,
emerging Superwoman
in a cone titted spandex
not-too-skimpy suit, 
your very image of
wife, mother, housekeeper, 
sexkitten, moneymaker,
effortlessly juggling with
a lipstick smile on my
never harried face.

You seemed to forget
Superman was fiction,
a movie fantasy by, for,
and about men and no one
would ever make a movie
depicting the Superwoman
you hope for.
It would be 
too insulting
and might cause us 
once and for all
to rise up 
and say 

copyright C D Hanrahan 1995

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