Feminine Rage is not pleased with the way classical men write her as murderous when most of the time she just screams from the tea kettle until soothed by a nice cup of chamomile. Though, okay, maybe Feminine Rage has a kill list, and maybe sometimes she leads the unsuspecting into the woods, and along the trail they talk of acquiescence, and maybe they sing songs from eighties movie soundtracks like Top Gun until they reach a clearing so quiet you can hear moisture dripping from the leaves, the clearing as verdant and monochromatic as envy, and then Feminine Rage whacks them with the axe she planted there weeks before. Once upon a time Feminine Rage got her foot caught in a trap and chewed it off when all she needed to do was depress the safety release. Another time Feminine Rage daydreamed over and over about ramming the tail of the car in front of her with her Subaru so much so that she didn’t trust herself to drive the kids to soccer anymore. Feminine Rage has a funny joke to tell you. Feminine rage walks into a bar and the bartender says Sorry, we don’t serve… and then feminine rage sets the bar on fire. Oh, you don’t like that one? Feminine Rage has a better joke. Knock Knock. Who’s There? Feminine Rage. Feminine Rage wh… [kicks in door and opens fire]. Feminine Rage is a riot. Feminine Rage is ready to confess: yes, it is she who has been sneaking into the bathroom at midnight with Halloween candy and filling the wastebasket with wrappers. Feminine Rage wants to gently cup all the faces of nascent women in her hand and say behold the horror of my countenance, and don’t let this happen to you, but she won’t because she has been conditioned to secretly despise nascent women. Feminine Rage knows it’s not all men so stop saying not all men. Speaking of, Feminine Rage held a march one time and everyone came in festive hats, but no one could agree on the point of the march. Nevertheless, everyone took great pictures of Feminine Rage. Feminine Rage once used her menses to draw a skull on the mirror in the high school bathroom. Here’s a word problem: Feminine Rage has been given twenty dollars. Tampons cost five dollars, her child’s medication costs fifteen dollars, and dinner for the kids costs five dollars. Which does Feminine Rage choose to eschew? Feminine Rage would like to hustle all the children into the basement when the tornado sirens wail, except Feminine Rage thinks she hears a tornado siren everywhere she goes, even in places where there would never be a tornado. One time, Feminine Rage went to a restaurant and asked for lemon in her water and the server forgot the lemon in her water, so Feminine Rage upended the table. Feminine Rage says, Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup! And the waiter says, Suck it up, bitch. Here’s another joke: How much Feminine Rage does it take to screw in a lightbulb? No one knows, because all the lightbulbs are blown, and why is it so dark in here? Here’s another: Why did Feminine Rage cross the road? To get away from her assailant. Feminine Rage is hilarious. She’ll be here all night.
Sonia Greenfield is the author of three collections of poetry, Letdown (White Pine Press, 2020), Boy with a Halo at the Farmer’s Market (Codhill Poetry Prize, 2015), and American Parable (Autumn House, 2018). She lives with her family in Minneapolis where she teaches at Normandale College, edits the Rise Up Review, and advocates for both neurodiversity and the decentering of the cis/het white hegemony. More at soniagreenfield.com.