by Hope Holz
I would knit you a pussy
with yarn soft and squishy—
cashmere and mohair and silk with glisten and sheen.
And because it would be a multi-cultural pussy, colors like—
mauve and taupe and aubergine.
And in the spot loved most by us,
a giant, shining pearl for the clitoris.
I would place this hand-crated creation on a golden platter,
but before I could present it to you,
you would grab that pussy,
because that is what you do.
You would be enraptured and caress its
glorious folds with your baby hands
and mark each contour
wherever your pouted mouth lands.
At first, you would not notice
your new pussy has no woman attached.
But soon after, you would find
you prefer a disembodied snatch.
You would brag to everyone who might listen
about your new vaginal acquisition:
“I own the best pussy.
No one owns a better pussy than me.
I’m telling you—The. Best. Pussy.—
and I know pussy, people.”
Months later, you would end your nightly ritual
by gently laying your pussy upon your pillow.
You would lie your head next to it,
nuzzle it,
your hair an orange, glowing halo.
I would slip into your room—a pussy ninja—
and find you sleeping that way
(you and your pussy, best friends forever).
I would tiptoe to your bed,
pluck your pussy from its pillow
and steal it away.
In the morning, you would be a blubbering babe
to find your pussy gone.
How dare someone take something so precious
that you call your own?
And then, you might begin to know
what it is like.
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| Image source: Pussyhat Project |
I would knit you a pussy
with yarn soft and squishy—
cashmere and mohair and silk with glisten and sheen.
And because it would be a multi-cultural pussy, colors like—
mauve and taupe and aubergine.
And in the spot loved most by us,
a giant, shining pearl for the clitoris.
I would place this hand-crated creation on a golden platter,
but before I could present it to you,
you would grab that pussy,
because that is what you do.
You would be enraptured and caress its
glorious folds with your baby hands
and mark each contour
wherever your pouted mouth lands.
At first, you would not notice
your new pussy has no woman attached.
But soon after, you would find
you prefer a disembodied snatch.
You would brag to everyone who might listen
about your new vaginal acquisition:
“I own the best pussy.
No one owns a better pussy than me.
I’m telling you—The. Best. Pussy.—
and I know pussy, people.”
Months later, you would end your nightly ritual
by gently laying your pussy upon your pillow.
You would lie your head next to it,
nuzzle it,
your hair an orange, glowing halo.
I would slip into your room—a pussy ninja—
and find you sleeping that way
(you and your pussy, best friends forever).
I would tiptoe to your bed,
pluck your pussy from its pillow
and steal it away.
In the morning, you would be a blubbering babe
to find your pussy gone.
How dare someone take something so precious
that you call your own?
And then, you might begin to know
what it is like.
Hope Holz is a published poet who recently completed her Master of Liberal Studies degree in Creative Writing from Southern Methodist University. Currently, she is furiously knitting as many
pink pussy hats for the upcoming National Women’s March on Washington. She finds her knitting needles to be fine weapons for resistance.
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