by Maggie Menezes Walcott

She might begin with how once, in a room
with filled chairs, she was struck with the urge
to extend that longest of fingers, polished in nude,
raise it above its companions, full-masted and tall
at the man seated two rows and four chairs away.
He and his sensible bowtie having just finished a speech
well received and applauded, while an audience remained
unaware that this was the man whose slick pallid hand
once caressed her low back, before slipping away,
crowded room quite enough to mask his intent
as a sea of warm bodies parted for him. You’d see
now and then, how she swallows it down, fathomless depths
of fury, below swells of submission. Yes sir and No sir
becalming, a lie.

Deep in the Northern Michigan wilderness, Magdalena Menezes Walcott lives with her family in a house constructed by their own hands. Maggie has neither Netflix nor Snapchat, but she does have a grossly unused degree in physical anthropology from Michigan State University and a particular knack for wiring outlets. Her pieces have been published in Mothers Always Write, Uncomfortable Revolution, The Dunes Review, Last Leaves Magazine, The Dillydoun Review, and most recently, Every Day Fiction.

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