Two Poems
Kayla Martell Feldman
CHAOS THEORY
“Metaphor does not so much compare something to something else as alter what both those things mean.” – Max Black
At sixteen,
I asked you why you liked me.
You said I was the rabbit hole
to tumble down
in search of something better.
You were right.
I am
chaos,
ungoverned by physics
A random and unpredictable
freak of the natural universe
wreaking havoc with the weather
A nether-dwelling goblin
zipped into a blue-eyed gilded suit
and Doc Marten boots
I am
impressive
to men who don’t read and
intimidating to the ones who do
which I can tell because you
are very clear about
which books are the important books
and don’t understand why I love all books,
indiscriminately, but
It’s cute,
Go on, tell me about Siddhartha
I am
flexible.
Textable at night time
A biter, occasionally
A drawer of blood
if you ask nicely and I happen to be
going through a straight-girl nails phase
Am willing to be choked, and
your favourite films are
Fight Club and Psycho, sooooo
It’s no wonder you’re following
my bunny ears into the dark seeking a
chaotic
impressive
bendy
nightmare.
You’re right, I am interesting.
I am interesting in a way that runs out.
It is until it isn’t.
Until it’s ordinary.
And you don’t like ordinary so much.
Or, you don’t want to admit you do.
I asked you why you liked me.
You said I was the rabbit
to trail into the burrow
in search of a thrill
and you were right,
I am
Traumatised.
Cauterised my wounds with
lightning, learned to
Girl Scout my way through every storm
scattering breadcrumbs as backup
so if I seem frenzied, it’s because
There are hurricanes
in my rabbit hole, and
it’s a little intense down here
so if you follow me
come prepared, okay, this is
ungoverned territory, this is
volatile ground, but
if you really, really want to come,
I’m
Smart.
Art takes many forms and you
are not the arbiter of finery.
Roth did not write the great American novel,
he just called it that, okay
and you’re making me wish
I’d played as dumb
as you want me to be,
I’m
Hypermobile.
It is at best a party trick
I am not a soft pretzel
I am just soft
and you’re going to hurt me.
I know it’s fun
that my wrists resist pinning, fun
to extend my knees, sideways, fun
to see how far my hips can go
There is a limit and
I did want to hit it but
this is where the rabbit hole caves in
‘cause it’s not so much fun when I’m crying, so
Scamper off. My ears are back, that means I’m scared.
And I’ll bite you in a less fun way
than I did five stanzas ago.
My eyes are bulging, which
isn’t as cute as you were expecting, is it?
My feet are thumping, that means
Back away slowly, or else.
This is my rabbit hole.
I asked you why you liked me.
You said that when my tail flashed by in the night,
What else could you do
but chase?
NOT ENTIRELY
I cannot write about my gender
because things get lost in the writing.
Pixels mix up intention with invention, and I
am terrified of being labelled a liar
just because I changed my mind.
Or it changed me
I cannot write about my gender
because I get my names tangled,
stuttering statistics as you
confidently regurgitate what Helen Joyce said
on the telly at Christmas
lament Forestater and Rowling
as witches burned or academics spurned
cite the loss of Kathleen Stock when actually,
she was fired for being a dick,
and her bad science
was just the sticking point they needed
to finally pull the plug, but
you glug their poison down because
they’re giving you an answer to your Big Bad
and I can’t write about my gender
because I studied two languages as a child
unbeguiled by right to left, it was
exciting to see another kind of calligraphy,
that language could be beautiful to look at
but I also learned fast that
when speech separates sex, mine is sidelined.
In Hebrew, only two letters denote feminine
while men take twenty.
Add one man to a group of women
and no matter how many outnumber him
a masculine verb is used:
a thousand women fused together
tethered to his suffix
their presence nixed by his
and I cannot write about my gender
because I disappear inside it.
Pride is not for the uncertain, the
Q for Queer and here
not Questioning my existence
in a body labelled mostly
but not entirely
accurately.
I am a woman, mostly.
I identify with the sex I was assigned at birth,
mostly.
These are questions they ask
on the job form now
and this opportunity is only for those who are
who identify as
who have the lived experience of
They do not have a box for mostly
There is no M in the acronym
and I can’t write about my gender
because when my trans siblings say
I cannot be both
and some of them do
they are keeping me quiet too.
The gates are closed but
I have questions
and I can’t write about my gender
because I should just be living it.
Giving it my all to fuck it up
To show up Shrier for the shitbag she is
To bother Bindel by unbinding myself
to any constant whatsoever
To smooth out my edges
and prove them wrong by being stronger
in my sense of self than
anyone whose personhood would be rocked
by a broader definition.
I am trying to write about my gender.
I am not finished yet.
Kayla Martell Feldman is a co-founder of Sovereign Writers Group and co-hosts the monthly spoken word night Process. She is a two-time Genesis Poetry Slam winner and has been commissioned by JW3, Canada Water Theatre, Watch Your Mouth, Vashti Media, and The Narcissist Cookbook. Her play Watchdog was a finalist for the Titchfield Festival Theatre Playwriting Award 2022. She has had work published by Last Leaves Magazine, T’Art Magazine, Popshot Quarterly, The Rail, and elsewhere, and featured on the Dead Darlings and Artists That Work podcasts. Her second poetry collection, Same Story, will be published by Verve Poetry Press in 2023. www.kaylafeldman.com.