Cabana
A new poem
by Hannah Gamble
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A cabana is both an “indigenous hut” and a “recreational structure” and, in the context of its latter definition, much like a vagina. Instead of “pussy,” now please say “cabana.” You can’t keep the weather out of either. You can’t keep people out of either, and you can’t keep people in. Mothers want babies out, once carrying them has become uncomfortable, but they also (the mothers) are crying because they don’t want to lose what seems to belong inside them; imagine if your heart just left your body. You might feel embarrassed that your heart had pushed a hole through your shirt and now everyone can see your tits a little, but also, how’s that heart going to make it out there in the horrible world without you? So many animals would love to eat it and so many careless motorists— texting, reaching for something deep in the console. Maybe you feel zero attachment to the heart (after all, the two of you have never had a conversation), but you still feel guilt when a thing previously in your charge leaves you and barrels toward harm. A vagina is safe, which is why the most troubled people must get inside at any cost. Outright crimes aside, almost every woman has felt rushed. A man clamoring toward what he perceives as safety, like a child who becomes violent when he just needs sleep or juice. The men who come so fast once they enter a vagina— it’s not overstimulation, it’s relief: Thank god I can give up and let a little of my life leak. But then what’s the woman saying when she comes? He tried to kill me but then I came back! (As I will every time someone tries to kill me, which, I imagine, will be on the regular.) |
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