Espial Excerpt: April 1
“Tea and Flowers” (Acrylic on Paper)
Ella Mesina ‘23
Poetry from the collection “Fatal Femme”, by Caroline Burke ‘24.
HER SKIN
A man can lust, a man can want
Yet it’s she who is the taunt?
In the eyes of he, the beholder,
Her knees and shoulders -
What a scandal!
Provocation he cannot handle.
Cause every ounce of female skin
Is a silent sin,
Some great distraction
A main attraction
Not a vessel for her mind,
She is defined
By a body before a soul
Forced to condole
His objectification,
Disguised as admiration
Assault and battery
Deemed as flattery
How does the length of a dress
Somehow suggests free access?
He calls it "her intent"
And he calls her clothes consent
Rules he just invents!
Empty excuses,
For blatant abuses.
REAL WOMAN
Curves like hourglasses
Tits and asses,
Skin: tanned and gold-
But on a Eurocentric mold?
Iron those curls straight,
Tiny waist,
Tummy braced…
Gap between the thighs:
Easy access for the guys
What kind of world are we living in
Where my very skin
Is it a commercial sin?
Wrinkles and scars
On our faces: memoirs
But we conceal, we cover instead
Across our skin we spread:
Foundation and concealer sticks
A quick facial fix
Instead of real, raw, flesh and bone,
Would you prefer simple silicone?
A barbie doll clone?
Then you don’t want a woman at all,
You want a plastic doll
FEMENINE URGE
The feminine urge
To shop and splurge
To spray perfume,
And dance around the room
To paint lips and nails,
And to live a fairytales
To wear skirts and dresses,
And to feel all beauty’s stresses…
The feminine urge
To binge and purge,
To hammer yourself thin
With a smile on your chin
To lose weight
To self hate,
To starve to death
‘Till the very last breath
To feel constant paranoia,
Cause he played you like a toy, a-
Man you thought could be your prince
But ever since
He revealed himself as another damn toad
You wander the down the city’s roads
On a quiet walk home,
Through the silent streets you roam
Now the sun has set,
A sudden threat:
Under black skies of stars,
But on the grounds of cuts and scars
Clutching keys between your fingers,
With fears of who follows, and fears of who lingers
Tactical pens and pepper spray,
Can’t be left in the dark a stray
The feminine urge,
When your on the verge
To promise you’re okay
With each and every passing day
To take up little space
And move with grace
The grace of a staged ballet,
And the beauty of a rose bouquet
But like demons and their horns,
Roses have thorns
The feminine urge,
To truly emerge
To stop pretending
And second guessing
To come into your own
And to grow a backbone
