Two Microphones and a Bully

Apple
stands quivering, one hand lost
to tremors, the other to concentration.
She slouches, flails, stomps
with everything she has
knowing it’s not enough
and that after the outburst
she will still be called frail.
She reminds me of


Redel
stands motionless, hands curled
around the podium. Her painted
red nails featured in
a friend’s poem, and,
when forced to disclosure,
Redel laughed it off,
“my fingers are stubby,
look,” but that didn’t prevent her
from showing up in a second
poem, as the sea,
and a third, as a bridge.