Friday, December 15, 2023: Ann Tweedy's "Self-Guided Tour" (and accompanying photo)

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 Ann Tweed’s first full-length book, The Body’s Alphabet, was published by Headmistress Press in 2016. It earned a Bisexual Book Award in Poetry and was also a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award and for a Golden Crown Literary Society Award. Ann also has published three chapbooks, Beleaguered Oases, White Out, and A Registry of Survival. Her poems have appeared in Rattle, Literary Mama, Clackamas Literary Review, Naugatuck River Review, and many other places, and she has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Net Awards. A law professor by day, Ann has devoted her career to serving Native Tribes. She currently teaches at University of South Dakota Knudson School of Law. Read more about her at:

www.anntweedy.com.

Twitter: atweedy01

Instagram: nightpoet1

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/anntweedypoet




© 2023 Ann Tweedy


Self-Guided Tour


self-guided tour

the thing is i am not generous

i can remember countless times

i thought of being good and giving

like i was taught in sunday school

and church but fear pricked me

something wedged deep wouldn't budge

like the time in rio, at the little

down home cafe. there was so much salt

in the rice and cheese, on the chicken,

that other flavors were hard to recognize. the food was tasty

though, thick with the fat that averts

an angular look from faces that needn't

contrive it. the guidebook had noted that the fare

was traditional, the place--and this was what drew me--

frequented by locals. the customers

sat on cushioned, orange stools like you might find

in a fifties diner, around a circular counter,

most of the food in pots and on rotisseries

inside the circle with the waiter. it was late,

the place was nearly empty, and the waiter

made sure the two americanos had everything they

wanted. drinks, salt and pepper, sauces. he cut

our chicken and steak up just so, served

and sliced our salad. i knew there was a 10%

customary tip included in the bill

and i told my husband not to give any extra.

even now, i can barely admit this, but i was

tired of the way people looked at us, the beggars

coming up in outdoor restaurants, the ingratiating

smiles at the hotel, at restaurants like this one,

the relentlessness of the vendors on the beach.

the envy made me angry, and over and over i told

myself i wasn't who they thought i was. but who was i?

i remember the depleted tone of the waiter after.

later i thought of his children, his rent,

but there is no going back. like everyone, i am an emissary

from my race and my country. when something is beautiful,

i exploit it, when someone is generous, i am tightfisted


© 2023 Ann Tweedy

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