An Editor's Excuse

Because I knew words in different ways,
Could mold,
Roll and
Fold them between ideas like clay,
He asked for my help in writing down-
Into poignant, poetic, free-verse lines-
The oppressive and suffocating stigma attached
To being a male in a women's studies class.

So I sat in front of my laptop and,
With my fingertips at the ready,
Pushed at the buttons
That formed the lines
That echoed the words
That marched from his mouth.

I listened intently,
Hiding away my mental quill
Hushing the inner editor
And stifling the synonyms parading through my mind.

All the ideas came rushing as I struggled to focus on the right key:
The precise moment to strike space
And keep myself from the instinctive pinky finger reach to
Comma and period.

I lapsed here and there,
Tap-tap-tapping at the arrow that swallowed the wrong letters into emptiness,
Flustered
And making a mental note to keep this line in mind,
To remember the cluster of words that jumped into my thoughts
As my tongue recited the last thing he said
Throwing the short-term memory verse onto the screen.

And as he continued to dictate,
Occasionally stopping and furrowing his brow,
It was obvious that his thoughts passed into memory-
Reaching back into the constricting aura
Of what their constructive criticism would do to him;
Recalling the verbal attacks,
The jargon and feminist political SCUM-inspired mini-manifestos,
Vagina Monologue orations,
Blended and confused tirades preserved and labelled in little Bell Jars
Shooting at him
Though aiming at the Shadow of the Man who hurt them long ago.

To them,
It was bad enough to have a guy in this sort of class
Who obviously knew nothing
About the stifling restrictions
Of being seen as nothing more than
A weaker sex.

...So when he asked me,
At the end of the poem,
To edit and change and re-arrange according to my preferences,
(Though the temptation was there)
I held back.

Because I knew words in different ways,
I knew that if I were to strike away
At countless lines,
Change the word order every now and again,
Replace this with that
Break the sentence off here
Instead of there,
I would be chipping away at
The voice of the man
Who dared to speak his own thoughts and beliefs
Amongst open-minded students
Who saw only through their own eyes
The black and white extremes
Of what it feels like for a girl.

The Ceiling

I draw up these words and place them on my shelf
Stuck between that thought and this.
I sit and wait, breathing in the seconds
Passing away into centuries,
Letting the words collect dust
Letting them mould with age...
Then retrieve them 
And
Passing a wiser, more wrinkled hand over the thick layer of times ashes--
All that grey matter sticking to my palms and fingertips--
I cut up the old creation into separate patterns:
Piecing them together this way and that
Into a quilt of words,
Sewing patches of mismatched fabric
(Those juvenile ideas betrayed,
Manipulated by experience and my calloused hands).
I throw the cover over the bulbs of light
Watching the tears print themselves onto the walls.
Cuts and holes plaster above and around as light is carried within them;
Isolating the pomp and circumstance of darkness
Like a starry night.
Each constellation connected and hidden in folds of myth
An illusionist's maze of tragic figures,
Monstrous creatures,
Gods and demi-gods long since past
Streaming overhead:
Defeating the eyeless portrait in the mirror.