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Aaron Balkan

Movies about Women

 

Women dressed in the costume of of this era not quite.  

Women thinking about crossing the street.

And drinking beer out of brown paper bags, soaking their feet in the kiddie pool.

Using one cigarette to light the next.

 

Women kissing the air around other women.

 

They are waving down a cab, these women, which means they have somewhere to go.

They are running from the rain, though there’s not really any rain. 

There is no sound. There are only women.

I prefer but don’t require the laughing adoration of armies of women. 

Writing their names in the steam of the shower door.

Who wear headphones and listen through pricey wire-tap machinery to men as they hatch their scheme. 

I stare as they lick another finger, turn another page. 

 

Women fast approaching.

Women at 30 frames a second,

which is only slightly slower than    

Big-boned women carrying tiny guns, 

Talented, brilliant women doing nothing but eating ice cream.

No that’s not true, they’re also turning, turning, turning to see

who’s coming up the avenue.

Women slapping men in the face — do women really do it?

Women with PhDs swooning at the songs of the 19 year old with the blue guitar.

Women who used to be men who wanted to be women.

Driving, I watch women in orange jumpsuits pull weeds by the side of the road.

I cross into another state and they’re doing the same thing. 

 

At the grocery they smile, not because they like me but because they’d prefer to get paid.

Angry women, pious women, women who have pasts, women with ample

closet space, carrying briefcases striding in sneakers and pantyhose across Ed

Koch New York transit strike nineteen eighty-three.

 

Women asking me to step into the hall.

 
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