by Devon Balwit
The woman crackled when handed
the mic, her anger having traveled
a long distance, gathering momentum.
She glared at the panel on literary activism.
Shame, she said, on you. They hadn’t spoken
badly as far as I could tell, so I awaited
her verdict. It was their ratio that rankled—
three men to a single woman. Her finger quivered
as she counted. I feel like a woman inside,
one man quipped, discomfited. No smiles.
Now I know what each of the four
should have demanded, an inclusion rider,
all chairs left empty until equitably filled.
Author’s Note: Inclusion riders! How I needed this concept two weeks ago when I attended a writers' conference in Mexico. It would have saved me some puzzlement.
 |
| Frances McDormand at the microphone and other women nominated for Oscars standing in the audience. Credit Patrick T. Fallon for The New York Times. |
The woman crackled when handed
the mic, her anger having traveled
a long distance, gathering momentum.
She glared at the panel on literary activism.
Shame, she said, on you. They hadn’t spoken
badly as far as I could tell, so I awaited
her verdict. It was their ratio that rankled—
three men to a single woman. Her finger quivered
as she counted. I feel like a woman inside,
one man quipped, discomfited. No smiles.
Now I know what each of the four
should have demanded, an inclusion rider,
all chairs left empty until equitably filled.
Author’s Note: Inclusion riders! How I needed this concept two weeks ago when I attended a writers' conference in Mexico. It would have saved me some puzzlement.
Devon Balwit is a writer/teacher from Portland, OR. Her poems have appeared in TheNewVerse.News, Poets Reading the News, Rattle, Redbird Weekly Reads, Rise-Up Review, Rat's Ass Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, Mobius, What Rough Beast, and more.
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