Ma'am
As a dominatrix, I hate the word.
It always commands a swift kick to
the unsuspecting balls of my clients.
What am I? Old? THWACK! Are we in the South? THWACK!!
No, ma'am. AH! MISTRESS! THWACK! MISTRESS!! THWACK THWACK!!!
But as L. said, "getting kicked in the balls is definitely a luxury item,"
and during the recession I find fewer men
who give me reason to put on my black patent leather boots
with red soles
to maul genitalia and egos that offended my feminist sensibilities.
At the Indian cafe, the word ma'am is made new,
uttered by women with heavy red lipstick and long black braids:
What can I get for you today, ma'am?
Anything to drink, ma'am?
Here is your roti, ma'am.
Ma'am becomes slightly English, plump, almost a mum,
maternal, a big blue mug, a knobby
woolen afghan.
Then I'm lost in my days of India,
hot chili pancakes, sandalwood soap,
ubiquitous curry, burning trash,
wandering cows, vendors who spoke seven languages,
the three pairs of jeweled shoes I bought.
Ma'am becomes a comforting place.
Madame, mademoiselle, senora, senorita.
I draw a line of upside down u's that remind me of elephant toe nails,
and think how I never understood hills like white elephants.
Ma'am, ma'am.
What I keep coming back to is that
I am young.
Later, I will deserve it,
from some young man,
no doubt in a grocery store aisle, of all things,
and I am complaining about my mediocrity
when mystery hears
Can I make you more comfortable, ma'am?
Can I help you to the bathroom, ma'am?
Ma'am, you have run out of room.
Recent Comments