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The Feminine Stain
When I was a kid
my dad said he could
tell always when
a book was penned
by female hand and mind,
in cases even where
a male pseudonym was used,
and so he’d have to put it down
and pick up something else instead,
a woman’s prose
being too flowery for him.
He was horrified when
I told him at 12
that my favourite author
was Agatha Christie,
but settled a little
when I was 15
and reading Patricia Highsmith,
because she was a lesbian
and therefore of masculine mind,
to his mind.
The feminine stain
appalls a fair few men;
they wrinkle their nose in disgust
at its appearance in their homes,
tell grossed-out jokes
about period pads and tampons,
and in my father’s case
detect its presence spreading forth
across mere page and ink.
my dad said he could
tell always when
a book was penned
by female hand and mind,
in cases even where
a male pseudonym was used,
and so he’d have to put it down
and pick up something else instead,
a woman’s prose
being too flowery for him.
He was horrified when
I told him at 12
that my favourite author
was Agatha Christie,
but settled a little
when I was 15
and reading Patricia Highsmith,
because she was a lesbian
and therefore of masculine mind,
to his mind.
The feminine stain
appalls a fair few men;
they wrinkle their nose in disgust
at its appearance in their homes,
tell grossed-out jokes
about period pads and tampons,
and in my father’s case
detect its presence spreading forth
across mere page and ink.
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