No Frame Fits

I’m the kind of woman

who meets a man named John who

an hour later says,

“You’re not a normal woman,”

because I said,

“I don’t like talking on the phone.”

He meant it as a compliment.

When Miriam the well-endowed

begins to rant about designers

who put pockets

on woman’s blouses, I say, “Women without tits

like shirt pockets,” but she says

she’s talking about blouses,” & I say,

“I don’t own any blouses.”

When I ruin five more T-shirts

by spilling food down their fronts

I shop the Walmart boys department

for five more – size 14,

bright colors – but here in Cafayate

Walmart’s a 3-hour drive.

I’ll need a new source.

My husband Mike’s the vain one –

shaving, primping his hair, & trimming

his mustache for ten minutes

after I’ve walked past the mirror

without a glance, pulled on the clothes

from the top of the pile, & often enough forgotten

to comb my hair.

Remember Madame Curie

who failed to pamper her skin, Carolyn Chute

who writes novels in flannel shirts,

granny skirts, & shit-kicker boots,

Sinead O’Connor who plumped up &

grew hair – square or round –

no frame fits all women.