poem for Ann

Column on Ann Menebroker

Do not refer to me as "poetess" —

I earned the right of leaving off

that ghost-burdened appellation; 

I am a poet, damn it — 

my haunted eyes and ink-stained fingers 

my proof, my badge of honor — 

I am not some silly, frilly maiden from Victorian days 

"who knew her place", who dared not leave its cumbersome chambers,

loose its sharp-edged, barbed chains and venture forth 

into the wilderness, unchaperoned.

I walked into those smoke-filled dens 

filled with surly men unafraid, but not boisterous. 

I had confidence without need or desire to cause a scene. 

They accepted my presence, for the most part; 

those who voiced disapproval were swiftly hushed 

by others who tipped their hats, a courtly gesture by those 

who had seen displays of my quiet. unearthly prowess and power, 

who had felt the burn of lava as it roiled down mountainsides, carving creations — 

covering the very spot where Sisyphus spent monotonous centuries, 

straining to lift a single rock, over and over again.

I am not yet Legend, perhaps, but well on my way

to the secretive, hallowed halls gilded with portraits 

of sacred giants whose names are only whispered  

partly in admiration, partly in fear.