How odd that you prefer
Spirits talking
over a woman alone on a stage.
So be it. I will tell you
I am a flute
the wind whispers through.
Listen how softly I speak:
the white rose pinned to my dress
barely trembles its petals.
My sister Tennie C. dressed as a man
seems to have forgotten what lambs wear.
I’ve made room in my dark skirt
for the voice that says,
A woman’s legs don’t
part at your command.
Do not, however, receive this
as coming from me.
