Crazy Jane Addams Occupies Hull's House
Susan Azar Porterfield
I
Because she wasn’t beautiful,
something askew. She learned it early.
No glass slipper apt to fit.
Lacking what attracts,
a rosebud mouth,
the grace of looking away--
she’d live without
destiny cinched at its smug, little waist,
planets aligned, the dinner at eightness
of mother, wife.
Nothing odd, nothing angled,
this, she sensed, put others at ease,
a door to salvation she’d have to live
outside of.
Because she’d have no home.
Because she’d have no role. No name.
II
To be someone’s cup or spoon.
Better yet, to cup, to spoon,
to hold something, to give--
After the good hours
measuring and stirring
in the loud, humid kitchen
to be returned every day
clean to one’s place in the pantry,
to have a place.
To be something small and plain,
tin, not silver.
Close thy Byron.
Nothing needing dusting.
Listen to Susan read the poem here:
I
Because she wasn’t beautiful,
something askew. She learned it early.
No glass slipper apt to fit.
Lacking what attracts,
a rosebud mouth,
the grace of looking away--
she’d live without
destiny cinched at its smug, little waist,
planets aligned, the dinner at eightness
of mother, wife.
Nothing odd, nothing angled,
this, she sensed, put others at ease,
a door to salvation she’d have to live
outside of.
Because she’d have no home.
Because she’d have no role. No name.
II
To be someone’s cup or spoon.
Better yet, to cup, to spoon,
to hold something, to give--
After the good hours
measuring and stirring
in the loud, humid kitchen
to be returned every day
clean to one’s place in the pantry,
to have a place.
To be something small and plain,
tin, not silver.
Close thy Byron.
Nothing needing dusting.
Listen to Susan read the poem here:
About the author
Susan Azar Porterfield is the author of two books of poetry, In the Garden of Our Spines, and Kibbe (Mayapple Press) as well as a chapbook of poems, Beruit Redux (FinishingLine Press).