Bechdel Test
We women sit and ruminate you.
We paint our nails and cross legs in a circle,
while you prevail our every thought.
How lovely your hair looked today,
how those pants really suited you,
how kind of you it was to let me speak yesterday.
What use is our mouth
if not to talk of you,
to please you,
to bolster you.
I am worth nothing if I can’t spend my day
encapsulated in yours.
When I sleep, my dreams are unremitting:
they cease when you aren’t in my thoughts.
I wake and make you breakfast.
I don’t care for eggs,
but you like them so I quiet my partiality.
We girls continue our pillow fight
and we wear our matching pyjamas,
and my girl friend tells me
that she’s decided to excuse you
for buying her a silver necklace
when she’s worn gold for 22 years.
I have no goals of my own,
my dream is a house, a drive with a car on it.
A wedding in his home town.
A beautiful child.
A hoover from the telemarketing shows.
Branded dish soap.
Fresh flowers. They’re not the ones I like though.
A manicure.
How great and simple are the pleasures of life
when you’re just a woman.
As long as I can see my girls once a week.
We have so much to talk about.
