When they told me to act like a lady
When I was angry
I sewed her aphorism into my skirt hem
And pulled her stockings over mine
To guard against the cold
We were not allowed to wear slacks
In my law school class, the two women sat in the front row
But we soon realized that we needed to wear scarves
Not, this time, the cold,
But the men behind us, above us
Looking down
Could see the color of our bras
(They were always white)
I applied for every job that my classmates wanted
My shoes matched my bags
My resume was printed on cream stationery
With fine ink and a font that implied fastidiousness
Once I watched the paper float like a parachute
Into the wastebasket as I left
There was work, there was standing
By the time I was old, I was an icon
For my wit, wisdom, widowhood
For all of the times I said no, not here, not now
Not if you want to live.
Jill Bronfman is a professor, lawyer, non-profit worker, and parent. She placed second in the Joan Ramseyer Memorial Poetry Contest in 2020. Her work has been accepted for publication in Rougarou, Ruminate Magazine, The Write Launch, The Decadent Review, The Halcyone, 82 Review, The Passed Note, Storgy, Verbal, Kallisto Gaia, Main Street Rag, High Desert, Flying Ketchup, Carcosa, Genre: Urban Arts, Ripples in Space, Mothers Always Write, Talking Writing, Coffin Bell Journal, Flock, Wanderlust Journal, Quiet Lightening, and law and technical books and periodicals. She has performed her work in Poets in the Parks, The Basement Series, and LitQuake, and had her story about a middle-aged robot produced as a podcast.