So there’s that Girl, in that city where you live, and She looks as if
She’s scrolled down all the pages of the internet and has read all the comments left behind like slurs left behind in your ear in a diatribe by MRAs and people whose ways are paved
with good intentions about what men like in a woman and has done the opposite.
She is both taller and shorter than you wish and probably skinnier and fatter too— and She doesn’t hide it
She wears less and more than the magazines dictated to Her say to.
She won’t hide Her curves—no, fat. And She won’t hide Her collarbone that sticks out.
She wears high-waisted jeans and skirts maxied. She carries an oversized tote second hand, off-brand while taking a smoke.
She’ll wear colours that scream at you make you look at Her even though you don’t want to just like her heels will make you look up to Her.
You catcall Her.
She side-eyes you with Her cat-eye glasses
With neon orange lips or deep dark red She’ll turn Her head To face you, to say “fuck you”.
And Her hair of unnatural shades probably teal, or red, or grey, or all of them will flip back
—unless it’s cut short— and you’ll see the sides of Her head are shaved naked while the rest blows in the wind and She’ll walk on by you will call Her a fake.
Doesn’t She look great?
This one is an oldie that not many people have seen...
Hitting the Books
by Brittany Renaud
Studying at ol’ J.N.G.,
My favourite librarian--
the only librarian I’d ever known then--
told my class—me, that boys carry their books under their arm
like a car t-boning a semi and girls carry their books against
their guts: arms criss-cross applesauce like a curtsy.
Why are girls’ guts needed to press against books like a caress
while walking upright and proper?
Why is a boy’s book jammed in his armpit as if it can perspire?
In the modern day can’t the boys and girls play at equal measure?
But how can they when girls must hold their books like a treasure
while boys tuck them under their arms and go about their pleasure?
At the post-secondary university level,
there are more arms criss-crossed applesauce than t-boning semis
and yet jammed armpits sit higher post post-secondary.
Open mic night is the Baileys
in your coffee in the morning
after unzipping the door
to the lingering smell of evergreens
while you’re still wearing pajamas
and no bra.
Spoken word is the red wine left
in your mind and at the end of the most
romantic date of your life in
that gown the little girl in you dreamed
of…and you didn’t have to pay
for a thing.
Poetry slams are the vodka,
cranberry, and lime (or the whiskey
or bourbon for you sensitive types)
in the middle of a night club
where you’re up on a platform
and all eyes are on
your bare legs, sculpted
ass, nice rack, perfect hair
and they’re cheering on that
slow burn that hits you
like a wallop so you don’t
know which way is up.
Poetry after a hard day’s work.
Testing...testing...Is anyone out there?
I'm Brittany Renaud and I hope to offer myself to you in pieces:
Pieces of thought
Pieces of poetry
Pieces of over-analyzing literature and other texts
Pieces of Poetics
My mission statement is to bring poetry to everyone in consumable, approachable chunks. While many of us poets love our pretension, I hope to make the world of poetry as accessible as possible through my own poetry and tidbits of knowledge I've learned along the way.