By Marcy Rae Henry
In Himalayan India we used leaves
buckets of water and our hands
Best-selling tampons have applicators
because Americans are afraid to touch themselves
In Himalayan India we didn’t have tampons
We used rags and pads
but didn’t touch each other’s hands to say hello
When wiping with leaves or plants you have to know
which ones are poisonous and that’s different
from knowing the price of toilet paper at Sam’s v. Costco
They want to install outhouses in rural India
where people have only used the forest
Don’t women have enough problems on buses
without feeling vulnerable trapped in a shitbox at night
We learned to cut off tops of water bottles and pee in plastic
during an unknown night
With the tops we made spoons and flimsy guitar picks
At crowded train stations or bus stops food was sold
on plates of leaves that were tossed from windows
to degrade sooner than bones that are outlived by plastic
In Himalayan India we didn’t have many choices
for shampoo toothpaste or hair ties
We got whatever someone carried up the mountain
The States is mad about choice
about opening bars and closing borders
Some see the lack of a mask as an act of rebellion
The Great American Rush on Toilet Paper
A virus that cannot space out everyone
And we are the perfect hosts when we don’t want to be
Marcy Rae Henry is a Latina born and raised in Mexican-America/The Borderlands. She is a resister and an interdisciplinary artist with no social media accounts. Her writing and visual art have appeared in national and international publications and the former has received a Chicago Community Arts Assistance Grant and an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship. Ms. M.R. Henry is working on a collection of poems and two novellas. She is an Associate Professor of Humanities and Fine Arts at Harold Washington College Chicago.
Photo credit: Copyright © 2020 K-B Gressitt.
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