Poetry by Taylor Tieder
I like to think the term bush
came about because a woman in 1969
forgot to zip up her flared jeans and
started parading down the street.
It took two daft looks for her
to realize the draft by her fly. She
glanced at the ground and saw her
windswept pubic hair peeking out.
To her right, there was a shrub in
which she compared her undergrowth
with. I like to imagine I am her when
I haven’t shaved.
I am her when I stand in the body
scanner and the bearded TSA agents
dare me to raise my arms higher,
same with answering lecture questions
from balding professors. I am her
when my sister asks to go to
the pool and all I do is slap on
a two-piece and sunscreen, when
the jacuzzi is packed with teenage
boys yet I strut out of the water,
face gleaming, my bikini line hair
draped and dripping.
I am her when there’s curls sprouting
from the backs of my thighs and I still
slide into a pair of denim shorts,
when I cross my legs in a desk
and my smooth classmates side-eye
the prickliness. Maybe one day
they’ll forget to zip up their pants.
