Kegel Exercise
by Ann Bogle
It was unfair to my time and my small kitchen rug that it took me two days to finish reading Meg Pokrass' “The Big Dipper,” pp. 10-12
in Damn Sure Right. Hours passed, and my labored laughter apparatuses would return to normal and I would return to the story and then
be seized by laughter again, so hard that I squirted pee and had to drop suddenly to the kitchen rug and block the squirt of pee with
the heel of my foot. That was due to not practicing Kegel exercises, not recommended for me (though I'd heard of them) by my petite,
boulder-headed gal therapist in Houston, who routed me toward “white, celibate multi-mental” after my feminism outlasted its song.
“Blythe looked like Pinocchio. She was a violin prodigy. She had a European haircut—short, black, severe. She was proud of her breasts,
which were large, adult size.” ... “Blythe was wearing her bikini bottoms, but she left her top on the side of the pool. The pool seemed
much smaller with her beside me. I was glad it was cheap.” ... “Blythe looked wet and slick—her womanly breasts gleaming. I felt angry” …
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Author's Note
For those who feel that reading Flash is always fast or easy.
"The Big Dipper" by Meg Pokrass on Fictionaut:
Does the book justice, especially the ending.*
"...after my feminism outlasted its song."
This is the shiniest spot for me. Really felt these words and, as a guy, that level of ability just floors me.
Really like this. Wonderful. Makes we want to reread Meg's book. *
Thanks, three. I'd hoped it might be a kind of prose-poem, composed (perhaps it's clear) of Tweets, 140 characters, no: what I think of as enjambment, no true "line breaks," yet poem-like in its appearance, sentences, definitely. Now I have another note to write nearer the top. Thanks.
* I should revisit "Damn Sure Right" too! Inspired by the experimental narrative in this piece.
*, Ann. Well done.
Meg is crying again.
Oh, I hope it's sweet; I stopped squirting pee to think of "breasts, which were large, adult-size" as I tried to phrase an episode of the past, a woman I met for lessons whose white, semi-opaque under-shirted breasts were untethered, adult-size. Her fingernails were grimy, and she ate a bag of food from MacDonald's in the library study room. She demanded free services and rides to St. Paul, 20 miles out of the way. When she screamed, it was high-pitched, hypersonic, and only a sea animal could really see her.
Another success, Ann.
*