Poems by Kathryn Lasseter

Overthrow

The measure of your freedom is

the ease with which you slip a noose,

yank it off your neck,

hurl it over the head of your jailer,

pull tight.

Sic semper tyrannis.

Imagine Being Rescued

The legends of heroism,
          once designated, 

not a monicker for sissies 
          or scaredy cats, but

for beefy guys in red tights
          holding anvils in each hand.

If you don’t need saving, 
          spectacle should suffice.

surReal Men

The roses in your cheeks
made me blush--
for you.
Men shouldn’t have roses--
in their cheeks.
Men don’t blush or
cry or wash the dishes, do they?

And surely men don’t come 
apart at the seams like an old, 
unstitched Raggedy Ann doll--
because men fear dismemberment 
more than they love contact sports.
Or do they?

Kathryn Lasseter has poems in Streetcake, Buffalo+8, swifts and slows, Poppy Road Review, and other journals.