Join or die, calls a man in gold. You
walk faster, just a little, and pretend
you didn’t hear. Join or die. The fear you
can’t shake off is that you’ve made your choice and
because you did not join him right then right there
you have chosen die. A man in a suit takes your
hand from the pocket of your coat and asks
for a dance. You don’t know him. He is undeterred.
Dance with him. Join or die.

You are escorted into romances, fairytales and poetry. Stay away
from boy things, you are told. Space and war and murder is no
place for girls, only for breasts and hips and lips and tongues and thighs,
for impossible proportions in alien women, for sweethearts at home,
for victims. You wonder if Mary Shelley was ever cat-called.
You wonder if Agatha Christie ever saw her name in the phrase
I bet she’s good in bed.

Jane Austen winks from behind a floral-patterned fan. She is for you, they
say, and you agree. She is for you. She writes women and they are for you.
And so, you continue, if every woman is for me,
give them to me. Where are they? You receive
an abundance of princesses, of teenage girls with fully mature bodies,
of sighing damsels, of sultry-eyed women in slinky black dresses,
of nurses and teachers and wives and mothers and sisters.
No, you say. Where are they?
Who?
The women. There. You have them. No.
No. Where are the political mastermind queens? Where
are the awkward teens with braces and blue eyeshadow
and no special powers or love triangles, just friends?
Where are the broken-nosed hunters who don’t need to be changed?
Where are the women in suits and ties? Where are the
doctors and professors and lesbians and asexuals and only children?
There are a few –
I want more, you demand.

You are selfish for asking. Everyone knows
the rare occasion makes up for the gross majority.
To disagree is to condemn yourself.
Join or die.