Megan Cartwright
Frankenstein Stuff
Subject line: Frankenstein stuff
Marking: UNOFFICIAL
I fear the missive is something perverse,
an amputated limb, or worse –
‘Beautiful! – Great God!’
An overgrown email trail,
details of ambition so grotesque
it must be put to rest.
Frankenstein stuff –
remonstration from an Executive
with a god-complex, and a penchant for
two-hundred-year-old metaphors?
More likely a meme sent, well-meant,
by bolt-necked Boris from Sales.
It could be the abomination –
hulking hallucination of opiate fevers
reaching out in 8-foot font, an
UNOFFICIAL invitation
to turn myself inside out,
fleshy bag of neuroses, stitched–together–with–doubt,
a mind made monstrous with what-ifs.
Woman’s-Woman
I’ve been told I’m not a “woman’s-woman.”
For what it’s worth, it could be true.
Women change shape in the space
between flashes/of/strobe/lights.
Bathroom girls are the best friends
you never had in high school.
They fix your hair; let you cry over that guy.
They kiss you on the lips right before last drinks.
Bathroom girls are not women’s-women.
When they shed their clothes and tumble
into bed, all hair and legs,
their lights go out, not a flicker of doubt.
Megan Cartwright is a poet and college Literature teacher who resides in Australia. Her writing has recently featured in Swim Meet Lit Mag and Passengers Journal.
