2000, a new millennium.

my savvy board mentor

says where i’ve gone wrong

is paying myself no more

than anyone else.

i sit with that

uncomfortable thread

running through my work

is it that simple?

i sit with that when i hire an actor who

for all his masks, can’t hide

that he chafes at a woman directing him

throws a tantrum, storms out.

i don’t follow.

 

when i get the phone message roaring

‘bitch, Biiitch! B-I-I-I-TCH!’

i make sure to ask all the men i know

about it, even my new beau, my future spouse.

this actor doesn’t know that.

when i ask him, his eyes skitter

and he puffs up his chest

‘could’ve been The Trickster,’ he says

tries to make that sound cool.

i’m not worried whether he’s cool

i’m wondering about the gal

who apologises for him to me

hoping i’ll understand, he’s her boyfriend

she has to stand by him.

i listen, don’t say anything in defense of

our friendship; nothing we hold

as women and colleagues

can touch the bright wonder

of their new flame.

her eyes too big under green knit cap

her long dark hair down, sleeves long

she hasn’t yet become

a feminist indigenous rapper.

we have to know what we’re worth.