Don’t Eat That Sandwich
—for all the Marlas
I am Jill’s complete lack of estrogen.
I am Jill’s willingness
to laugh at the innate nature
of men to talk over women while
I exceedingly interrupt them,
watching as they stutter
over their words,
growing louder and louder
-because volume equals visibility.
I am Jill’s memories
of boys at school pulling hair,
shoving girls against lockers,
sneering as they called us ugly
with their unsure erections
at the ready.
I am Jill’s desperate need
to explain
something that I know
absolutely nothing about
to a condescending man
as I continually shush
their whispers of facts.
I am Jill’s open palm,
ready to slap-grab
any man in the office’s ass
with no consequence.
I am Jill’s unlimited ceiling,
never a care in the world
about salary competition
simply because I have
tits and a uterus.
I am Jill’s complete
abundance of confidence,
ready to speak up
and be heard.
Listen,
for the matriarchy
demands
you obey.
April Ridge lurks in the rural hilltops of Monroe County, Indiana, akin to Mothman’s tomboy cousin, listening for hints of poetry on the wind. She enjoys horror films, the sordid affairs of 1920s circus performers, long walks in pitch black tunnels and the occasional waffle cone from Jiffy Treet. April prides herself on finding the perfect outfit in which to adorn the skeleton of the soul. She hopes to highlight the needs of poems in danger, on the run, escaping from the need to fit into one form or another, on their way to the freedom of epiphany. Her work has appeared sporadically in deep space, circling black holes until the dinner bell of eternal fame rings in its echoing chambers. She is the author of Monstrous (Pure Sleeze Press, 2024), A Three Night Affair (Keeping The Flame Alive Press, 2025), Even the Daffodils Are Trying (Crying Heart Press, 2025) and forthcoming chapbook Pareidolia (Pure Sleeze Press, 2026).
