Agreeable woman

You are an agreeable woman.

You can’t recall any overt indoctrination. Your mother wasn’t particularly agreeable. In fact, she was always drumming the beat of her independent drum.

And yet, you were the agreeable woman who always needed saving at the party. You remember those inevitable moments when the creepy guy wouldn’t leave you alone, and your bolder, brasher friend would have to politely tell him to fuck off.

But you, agreeable woman, couldn’t just say no?

You are an agreeable woman because hours after an injustice occurs — let’s say when someone cuts you off or is blatantly rude to your face, for instance — then all the retorts you should have said come flooding in. Agreeable woman that you are, you couldn’t muster them up in the moment.

But it can’t just be a character flaw. Let’s consider the evolutionary advantages of being an agreeable woman. One could argue it’s a survival tactic.

Stay agreeable, agreeable woman, so that you keep all the men — the potentially dangerous, scary ones — docile, placated. The agreeable woman makes everyone her friend.

La di da, hunky dory.

Agreeable woman, where did you leave your backbone? Did its development get stunted in the womb of your childhood?

The agreeable woman who always chased the perfect grades, the perfect looks. Agreeable woman could also be called a perfectionist woman, an obsessive woman.

No, that’s too harsh, right?

But, lest we forget, there are also perks to being an agreeable woman. Think of all the people oh so pleased with your people pleasing!

The agreeable woman doesn’t make the poor, innocent man who accidentally came inside her pay for Plan B the next day. No no, it’s okay, the agreeable woman’s got it! Only fair, right?

The agreeable woman will only feel shame for that years later, cringing at the agreeableness of it all.

You, agreeable woman, wonder how you got through life relatively unscathed. But wait, let’s give the agreeable woman some credit. She’s no fool.

She eventually squirms her way out of the non-agreeable situations. She has an intuition, no matter how buried in doubt and Midwestern qualifiers.

That time the gray-haired man convinced you to pay him for his revolutionary new therapy that was being studied by a university in Switzerland, don’t you know?

The same one who told you to pose in an apron and tights, for art.

I know what you’re thinking, but now’s not the time to judge the agreeable woman, poor thing was trying her best. She also thought it might be art.

The agreeable woman eventually took her train far far away, into the next situation she will hope her parents never find out about.

And about those parents, you knew I’d make it to them eventually right?

Perhaps the agreeable woman is just the product of a sheltered upbringing.

The world of hard knocks will slap the agreeableness out of someone real quick, one imagines. But the agreeable woman’s existence, you know, maybe it was too cushy of one.

Many people want to look back and shake the agreeable woman. It’s like her gauge was broken, making her tolerance for bullshit a little too high.

An “Ope, I’m sorry” when someone bumps into the agreeable woman. A “No problem” when someone wakes the agreeable woman out of bed because of their drunken ignorance. The agreeable woman makes them coffee and listens to their troubles.

That’s the trick right there. What’s the line between agreeableness and kindness?

Agreeableness is a passiveness is a softness is a dagger turned inwards.

It’s a kite blowing easily in the wind — taking the agreeable woman far until she hits a tree or is simply tired of waving around on the whim of the sky.

Because the agreeable woman discovers her limits in starts and stops.

The agreeable woman starts to get flashes of her power. She may write it off at first as an unearned compliment.

“Who, me?”

But eventually, the agreeable woman will feel its fire rise up within her. A slow burn at first, until she’s set fully ablaze.

Confidence will rise as she tells the guy at the club without an ounce of hesitation “We are NOT interested” after he tries to edge his way into her friend circle.

When she stands up to a client who changes the terms with a flimsy justification.

Each splinter, fueling her fire until the agreeable woman stands strong in her flames, finally unafraid of the scene she’s making, the brightness she’s giving off.

In that moment, the agreeable woman will solemnly raise the unmistakable flag of her middle finger to the generations of conditioning that made her so fucking agreeable.

Evelyn

It’s been so long

but it’s about time we talked

Over time and static

I hope this message reaches you

in the space between

the clouds and your cozy home

with the cookies always piled high in the tin

Tin grey as the sky now

the wind whips and pulls

at the air Imagine that plastic bag from American Beauty

flying high

tumbling low and free

What’s it like there

in your new home

Tell me

does it feel wide open

like desert highway

or more like a deeply~rooted~oblivion?

Just curious

***

Tell me about the way it ended

and I’ll tell you about

the way the tram line here runs on an endless loop

Direction Gare-Direction Luxexpo-Direction Gare-Direction Luxexpo

Watch the sleek suits step on the silver bullet

and get off

at your grey bungalow

Come on in

I see the teacups lined up next to our notebooks and

your angels, angels, angels

They come and go

as the people rush in and out

Tell me now

Do their halos glow like the silver lining of clouds

or are they more like those babies held by mothers in the aisles

chubby cheeks and Michelin star puffers

Come on in

let’s have a tea and you can tell me about

their better nature

***

What does your lord tell you now

in the staticky space

between the channels

and the streets with stoic structures

Do you look down

and smirk at our harried journeys silly stresses

I tune in sometimes to listen

between the buildings’

sharp edges and soft arches

See if I can hear the sky as it transforms from

hazy gray to cotton white

The clouds whisper their own subtle language

softly like the woosh of white

framing your waiting face

Because your language was mine too

we shared it in sweet sips — and exalted exclamations!

Between us sat on the cushions

we found answers

to questions we never asked

***

Before we’re done here

Tell me about

the light the light the light

Does it feel closer now

Does it hold you

tightly like your knitted scarves

Still send you streaming

towards new heights

On your book cover wet paint

g l i s t e n s

While down here I dodge puddles

after the clouds

have poured their hearts open to the street had their way with the hedges

The way you poured yours into the book

And I watched as the rain curled its paper edges

What if I told you I never liked the taste of

the ending

What if after all this time and with all this light

I told you we could set them straight?

Red incoming

ıllıllı Listen to this poem

Close your eyes and feel the red—

that’s what I do now

A lizard recharging itself,

cell by cell soaking up all the rare energy

The color starts out a light orange

before quickly deepening into a bright fire engine hue

Ripples of light dance on the surface,

like sunlight on water

These days, simply leaving the house can feel like a herculean accomplishment,

as if I need a reason to put one foot in front of the other

— like something to buy

or someone to see, for instance —

But a simple walk can yield surprises

and the sun is reason enough

My thoughts dance around like the flickering red

movie screen saturating my lids

Sitting still with them,

that might be the hardest part

Humans, ladies and gents,

complicating even the simplest of tasks

Always finding new mountains to climb,

inventing new problems to solve

Come back to the red

Take it

A shock of vitamin D

straight to your system

Direct — unlike the inspiration that now needs to be

coaxed out through sheer will and discipline

I believe it was the ancient Greeks who credited their creative failures and successes to muses,

those mysterious forces of creative inspiration

Takes the pressure off,

doesn’t it?

Muse, oh muse, where art thou?

How can I call you back?

Give me something to feel,

to say, wash me clean of my sins

Because, I must confess:

I often write with the intention to share

A sign of attention or validation seeking? Perhaps

Or maybe it’s just about wanting to create and feel seen

In the same way that I close my eyes to see the sun,

the poem then is the moment of opening

A question, gently posed,

Did you feel it too?