In honor of National Poetry Month, our Women’s Wednesday post this last week featured Olivia Gatwood. For this week’s blog, we offer you the first poem of hers that our founder ever heard – so profoundly impacted, she immediately purchased Ms. Gatwood’s collection, “New American Best Friend” and can’t recommend it highly enough.

Check out the links below the poem too!

(Please note that the pieces in italics should be indented, but the formatting is being fussy.)

after Jennifer Givhan

I want to write a poem for the women on Long Island
who smoke cigarettes in their SUV's with the windows
rolled up before walking into yoga, who hack and curse
in downward dog and Debra from the next block over, who
has strong opinions about Christmas lights after
New Years, who says that her body isn't what it used to be
but neither is the economy or the bagels at Rickman's Deli
so who really cares, who, during Shavasana, brings up
the rabbi's daughter, who got an abortion last spring,
and Candy in the corner, who is mousy and kind but
makes a show of removing her diamond ring before 
class because it's just too heavy, calls Debra hateful
and the class takes a sharp inhale through the nose
then out through the mouth. and after class, after Candy
rushes home to check the lasagna, Debra lights up
a smoke and calls her best friend Tammy
So then the girl calls me hateful
hateful, can you believe it? What a word
some kind of dictionary bitch over here
and so you know what I says? I says
you don't know the first thing about hateful,
wanna know what's hateful? Menopause.
And it doesn't really matter if Debra actually said that 
to Candy (which she didn't) because Tammy is so
caught up that Candy called Debra hateful (which she did)
that next week when Tammy runs into Candy while
shopping in Rockville Center and Candy asks Tammy
how she's doing, Tammy will adjust the purse strap
on her shoulder and say, We all have a little coal
in our stocking, Candy, and Candy will shuffle away,
certain that Tammy knows something about her marriage
that she shouldn't and she doesn't, she just loves
Debra, who just has a lot of opinions and had Candy given
her the chance to finish her sentence, Debra would have 
talked about the reproductive rights march she went to 
in the sixties and the counterproductive sex-shaming
methods of organized religion. I want to write a poem
for the women on Long Island, whose words stretch
and curl like bubblegum around the forefinger, who
ask if I have a boyfriend and before I answer, say
Don't do it. Don't ever do it. You know
my friend Linda, she's a lesbian,
like a real lesbian and whenever I go
over there, she lives on Corona by
Merrick, by the laundromat you know where
I'm talking about? Whenever I go over there
and see her and her wife, what's her name
I can never remember the girl's name
anyway whenever I go there I says you know
what I need? I says, a girlfriend, that's what I need.
The women on Long Island smoke weed once a month
on the side of the house after their husbands - Richard Larry
Gary Mike or Tony - go to bed, they let their teenage
daughters throw parties in the basement while they watch
the Home Network upstairs and keep a bat by the couch
in case anyone gets mickied, even if it's their own son
who did the drugging, the women on Long Island won't
put it past any many to be guilty, even their kin who,
after all, have their husband's hands and blood and
last week, when a girl was murdered while jogging
in Queens, the women on Long Island were un-startled
and furious, they did not call to warn daughters.
They called their sons. Took their car keys, their coats, 
locked the door and sat them at the kitchen table,
If you ever, and I mean ever, so much as
make a woman feel uncomfortable
I will take you to the deli and put your
hand in the meat slicer, you think I won't?
You hear me? I will make a hero out of you.
With mayonnaise and tomatoes and dill and onions
I want to write a poem for the women on Long Island
who, when I show them the knife I carry in my purse,
tell me it's not big enough, who are waitresses
and realtors and massage therapists and social workers
and housewives and nannies and tell me they wish
they would have been artists but
Life comes fast. One minute you're taking typing classes
for your new secretary job in the World Trade Center
and the next it's all almost over, life I mean, but I kicked
and screamed my way through it, and so will you,
I can tell by the way you walk. One more thing
when they call you a bitch, say thank you,
say thank you, very much.

Recommended Links of Olivia Reading

Featured poem:

2019 at the strand:



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