Women

What worms its way through the firewall:
the cut of a black blouse against
her scapula. Cover my eyes,
walk backwards into the inevitable.
Even the Committee can’t convince me
that her body against mine
doesn’t anchor
my spine.

Weight

Agatha’s hand

is heavy on the

velvet waist of my

half-laced bodice. The

meaning of weight: I

will soon sprawl beneath

brocade, her body

slung beneath my skirts.

She will snort, heave, stand,

stagger, and slam out.

Still, the weight of her

hand thrills through my thigh.

Let me lean, press my

hip against her suede

skin. Beneath my skirt

my slip rides up. I

feel my bodice crease

beneath her severe

fingertips. I drop

my eyes. Hide their sheen.

The weight deserts my

waist. Her hands lumber

across my breast. A

tug. Dangling ribbons

yield. Her terse voice: “A

double bow will keep

ribbons from skipping

out.” Hands slide beneath

my collar. Compress

my shoulders. I gleam.

I’d slump beneath her

pleats. I’m thread. Let her

weave me into twill.

I’d succumb. Her hands

are still. I stand, red.

Sociobiology vs. Feminism

I. Sociobiology, the Sociobiology of Sex/Gender, and Parental Investment Theory

Sociobiology is the attempt to explain animal (including human) social behavior in terms of evolutionary (natural selective) incentives.¹ Evolutionists since (and perhaps even before) Darwin have been trying to understand social behavior as an evolutionary phenomenon. In On the Origin of Species, Darwin himself theorized that, like physical traits, behavioral traits are heritable and contribute to differential reproductive fitness; i.e., behavioral traits are subject to natural selection.² Taking this claim as its premise, sociobiology attempts to explain the development of observed social behaviors in terms of their adaptivity, or their contributions to superior fitness.

Since the critiques I will be considering in this paper are largely feminist critiques, it makes sense for us to narrow our focus to the subfield of sociobiology which has caused feminists the most outrage: the sociobiology of sex/gender. Darwinian natural selection is propelled by competition, and, because species-mates compete for the same resources, some of the steepest competition happens within species.³ Sexual dimorphism is one result of this intraspecial competition: Darwin argued that sexual dimorphism came about through the mechanism of sexual selection, or as a result of competition between same-sex individuals for cross-sex mates.⁴ Diamond points out that competition also takes place between cross-sex organisms: cross-sex organisms need each other’s sexual/genetic resources in order to perpetuate their own genes: “It’s as if, at the moment of fertilization, the mother and father play a game of chicken, stare at each other, and simultaneously say, ‘I am going to walk off and find new partner, and you can care for this embryo if you want to, but even if you don’t, I won’t!”⁵ Because of the sexes’ differing reproductive “machinery,” the resources males would like from females do not always coincide with the resources females want to give to males, and vice versa.

I am nine. She is nineteen.

I want to wrap her wavy dark hair
around my arm.  Sometimes she catches
her lower lip between her teeth, and then
I can see that there is a way in. I want
to reach out with my pinky finger,
touch the corner of her mouth. The fissure.
But it disappears quickly. Her mouth
is a thin line. It is the path I walk.
It leads to her eyes, which are made
of winter soil. I have a spade.
I am stocky for a nine-year old. If I jump
on the top of the blade,
even frozen earth will give way.
Once, she hugs me. Her ribs are railroad tracks.
I have always been on the train. If I squeeze harder,
she will squeeze harder. She will squeeze me
into a ball of tinfoil. She will squeeze me
into a one-inch cube of bread. I will be small
enough. I will be allowed in. But the railroad tracks
are made of bone, not steel.
She disentangles herself from my wordless arms
and takes a breath. I put my head down on my knees.
I’m still here, but she has chosen air.

Stunted Sestina Instigated by a Corroded Beloved

Today I’m punctual. Still bare in here. Across

the conference hall the mingling starts. Aware of Her,

of course, glass flower shoved into my throat. Her network

congeals around her. Mission: I’m supposed to network

here, strut my stuff and seal a snarky deal across

this sewer of convention. Will not speak to Her.

I’ll speak to Larva Boy here. Only glance at Her

by accident. Untangle ratty strands of network,

that nest of icy shards. The seed. I’ll come across

the things inside of me I need. I need to cross her off my network.

My finger fits there.

Should I take her

to the lake? I want

to touch her freckly-

toothy glint when she

expects a frog. No,

I don’t. I want

to struggle on behalf

of her ribs and my

clavicle. I want to

inform her that she

has the right to refuse

rancid food offered

by overconfident lovers.

No hike. No lake. Just

a driving finger that

speaks against her

sternum.

Co-op Life

I

I slept with the window open all summer
and it took until September 9^th
to notice the crickets.

II

Co-op life is full of chickpeas.

III

Different dreams
with my new fuzzy rainbow sheet
and an embroidered burgundy pillowcase
made from a dress I bought at a fleamarket.

IV

I could make knee-length wraparound pants
from the fabric swatch hanging on my wall.
And I will, too.

V.

If you microwave cheese long enough,
the oil separates out and the rest of the cheese
is chewy like gum, but less stretchy.

VI.

The F one and a half octaves above middle C
is broken on our piano, which adds
anachronistic syncopation to Bach fugues.

VII.

Vanessa was disgusted with me for asking
how to clean the potato scrubber,
but at that point I really, really didn’t know.

VIII.

With three Emilys we can make
a triple-decker Emily sandwich. Or quadruple-decker,
depending on whether the Emilys are the bread or the filling.