Men

"Men as Tables" by Della Calfee

Men
are marvelous creatures.

In the constant, confounding urgency I feel,
to have been, rather than be,
and to look rather than see
and to have written rather than write

I skipped a few steps and
stumbled with lumbering strides

falling into an aerial trap
where spontaneity bit into my flesh
and with an injected dose of lucidity
I realized
that all my confusion in life thus far
has been caused by these splendid beings.

I am merely amazed at the power that I have given up
trying to decipher the deception
that has been passed on to me
while I ponder the power I would have gained
had I given in to the overwhelming urge to be, more:

more than the something endearing

you may find in a little girl who likes poetry and sings;

more than the agonizing longing
to be and remain submissive,

despite the power bestowed upon me, by you, to own you.

Yet at the expense of being constantly scrutinized

by those who claim to know me
I have realized that being the brand of realistic,
that I should be,
would only lead back to a mediocre life
that I have pretend-lived
in a shadow play of the world
of hazy recognitions;
and acknowledging that I am what I am, when I am,
does not make me any less real.
More unusual perhaps…
and I won’t apologize
if that does not fit into your very, of course, extraordinary
tedium.

Now as my fingers slide on the black shiny keys
to scramble down what I have not understood yet,
between the muddled appreciation of the beauty

of the fairer sex
and the seduction of the broadness of the shoulders
of the rougher one

and how interchangeable these expressions are,
I realize
that I have missed the point,
of looking.

Men I say,
are magnificent creatures.

I don’t say it enough…I don’t know it enough
but I do appreciate the men in my life.

All of them.

From the ones
that I have been, lifetimes ago,
to the ones in a life I remember more about.

The men I have grown to admire,
even their treachery.

With each role I took:
as a daughter, a sister, a lover, a friend, an observer
or a nothing, that is a something, that has possibly
defined me more than anything,
I became less of a something endearing
and more unsympathetic, unkind, and impatient.

Now learning to be, and see, and walk, all over again,
these unsung beings in my book,
mean more…and perhaps are now allowed,
to be more.

Somehow now that I am not what I should be
I am more of a me, that should have been.

So as I skip a few steps like I do and
stumble again
I won’t fall into my trap,
I rise from my extremity,
and appreciate
the virile part in me,
that Freud thought I envy.

Men,
are me.