men tion my name
to my mi sery siblings
as we support
report
reveal the violence
they desperately want
us
to conceal.
Me to be stronger,
you to stand taller,
we to shout louder
than they thought
we could
keys
It wasn’t a bad idea to go to his house
you’ve known him forever, he passed
out in your kitchen one night
middle of the party
(you gave him a pillow and puke bucket
and he washed both the next day)
you met his parents at homecoming
they liked you
he ordered pizza and is dying to game
on his new console, he made margaritas
cuz they are your fave
you can trust him.
He didn’t say his roommates
were gone for the weekend
but hey,
you know the rules, you’ve stood
under the social media waterfall of pics
and videos of women defending themselves
how to fight back when attacked
in the dark, car keys between fingers
Wolverine claws ready in an alley,
when the stranger approaches
you’re the superhero
sound effects floating above your head,
kick him in the balls
you are empowered
to smash his throat, shove his nose bones
into his brain, so easy.
And Squad rules, right?
We girls watch out for each other
monitor our drinks, emergency signal
flares if we need rescuing, no one leaves the club
with a stranger unless GPS tracking
is turned on and check-in times assigned
we are strong
we take care of each other.
But this isn’t that cuz
he’s not that guy,
he’s a buddy, and a friend of a bunch of friends
he’s a friend squared, cubed, and he hands you
the margarita laced
with GHB or ketamine or Rohypnol
as he takes the controls, turns on
his game
and you wake up
the next day broken
bruised confused contused confounded
astounded by the pain inside and out
cuz the rules they fed you
were the wrong tools
car keys clutched in tiny fists
never work.
Yourdick™
Yourdick™ is not as special as you want it to be
it’s not a cannon, or a gun, or that football
spiral-thrown, fired
over all the players on the field, launched
from the dreams of your parents
into the arms of the boy
fast enough to break away from the pack,
nimble enough to tiptoe between sideline and
end zone,
the boy
man enough to get hit
and hit and hit and hit
and hit and hit and hit and hit and hit and hit
and hit
as they pile on until the whistle blows.
I know this is confusing,
you grew up on beer commercials that taught you
the equation of beer plus football equals sex,
and when beer is chugged
not to mention Jack, Stoli, or Fireball
spiced with the pills in your buddy’s pocket
you feel entitled to score, to dominate
the other team—
Don’t. Sex is not a game
where one person wins by destroying the other.
The overpowering of resistance
belongs only on the field
where the center of attention is a football
not Yourdamndick™.
forgiveness
Take your age the first time a stranger touched
your body with danger in his hands,
evil-minded. . . .
But it’s not usually a stranger, is it?
Most times you think you know him,
but not really,
if it was your brother, your uncle, grandfather,
your
dad
who turned monster
when he was alone with you;
your
teacher, priest, boss, date, best friend, best friend’s brother, best friend’s father, coworker, president, housemate, professor, butcher, CEO, talent scout, lab partner, dentist, photographer, bus driver, clown, band director, coach, pastor, scout leader, congressman, youth pastor, lawyer, mentor, regional manager, neighbor, conductor, committee chair, rabbi, hero, therapist, ski instructor, pediatrician,
the dad of the kids you babysat, who volunteered
to drive you home
the boy you were falling in love with
the dude in your fantasy soccer league
who turned into a monster
when he was alone
with your body.
Are you still doing the math?
Raise your number to the power
of three
exponentially increasing the impact
of his shackling hands
cuz you still feel them
The exits were blocked,
so you wisely fled your skin
when you smelled his intent,
like a selkie, you shed your pelt
and hid in the smoke without breathing
Multiply your number by the number of years
(or months or days, maybe hours)
before you spoke up about
the molestation fondling forcible touching
being chased to the door, promised the part
offered a higher grade, had your career
threatened,
your kids threatened,
man-handled against the wall
onthecouchthefloorthegroundthedesk
dirty words spit in your hair
the twisting of your arm
cuz he can’t come until you cry
Now multiply that number by the number of times
you endured being harassed,
hit on, talked down to, catcalled, gossiped about, called a prude, slut-shamed, roofied, spied on through the window, grabbed on a train, or had another loser show you his dick in the park
or on the bus
or in a pic sent to your phone, unasked for
study that number,
and no matter what it is,
forgive yourself
because no, my friend,
you are not overreacting.
Not one bit.
banish
she wrote in tiny letters
that she was not
outkasted
for the exact same reason
that melinda
got outkasted
but
outkasting is hurtful
no matter
who you are
or what happened
triptych
a girl at a private school
on the West Coast
was raped at a party
raped by two boys
she once thought were friends
she limped home, called the police
who charged the rapists
who got out on ba
il
and kept going to school
her school
she rode the bus home, called the lawyers
who got a restraining order requiring
the rapists to stay two hundred feet away
which screwed up their schedules
and irritated the administrators
who made her eat lunch
in the library after that
One of my favorite images in Speak is Melinda
at her mother’s store, where she folds
the wings of the triple-paneled mirror
around her
The Now in front of her
The Past to her left
and to her right
The Possible
Sorrow caught that girl halfway
through her junior year, bit her heels
hard, ripped out her Achilles tendons
hobbling her, those boys got probation
for raping her at the party
she got high for years, damaging
herself beyond recognition
for Melinda, the reflections multiply
endlessly distorting the way she sees
herself
kaleidoscoping her beating heart
warm breath fogging the glass
it took years, but that girl finally stopped
getting high, got her degree and a factory job
which felt safer
the two boys who raped her graduated on time
went to college, got married
moved away, and started over
pretending they were clean slates.
Melinda’s trick is looking hard
in the mirror, absolving herself
and cracking open doors to the next place,
but the girl at that school, so haunted,
smashed all the reflections, boarded
up the windows, and bolted the doors
forever stuck at fifteen years old
judged to serve a life sentence
for what they did
overheard on a train
“You just let him
do it
cuz if you don’t
his friends talk
shit about you
online”
she wiped
at the rainfall
of tears, but they
drowned her
before the train could stop
Danuta Danielsson
We’re all born to fight
but few are ever trained,
instead they tell us
“Be nice.”
Danuta’s mother survived
a Nazi concentration camp
alive but scarred,
so when the Nazis marched
through her Swedish town in 1985,
Danuta hauled back
and smacked a Nazi
in the head with her purse.
It was a big purse.
She snapped, they said
couldn’t take it anymore
reached her breaking point.
We should teach our girls
that snapping is OK,
instead of waiting
for someone else to break them.
musing
Ophelia and Persephone walk into a coffee shop
bringing with them the smell of cinnamon
and rain.
“Latte?” asks Ophelia.
Persephone nods. “With an extra shot. You?”
“Earl Grey, hot, with room.”
I turn off my music, keep the earbuds in, type
gibberish so I can spy
they shoot rock-paper-scissors
for who pays the bill.
Persephone wins, grins, orders scones with jam.
Ophelia leaves a huge tip.
Unwilling avatar for silenced girls, our Ophelia,
seen only though the male gaze;
pale gray construct constantly
throwing herself at boys and rivers. Found
a few strands of her hair on a berry bush
which I plucked and wove into the tapestry
unconscious, she later sprang from my forehead,
fully formed, as Melinda.
They chatter softly, unaware or uncaring
of the hungry looks
thrown their way from the men and the boys
envying the steam curling
around the girls’ faces. They butter and jam
the scones, erupt into laughter over a private joke.
They speak
their own language, those two.
I ran into Persephone’s mom years ago
at the grocery store, both of us worried
about our daughters,
all the daughters, captured by the underworld
and pulled out of sight. Demeter wiped my tears
and fed me pomegranate seeds
which I swallowed whole. Their taste flooded
back in my mouth when Lia awoke, the wintergirl
grateful to talk mad at me for listening.
My coffee stone-cold, fingers cramped
from typing
it’s time to head home,
walk back through the woods.
As I gather my tools, the girls quiet fall
into each other’s eyes,
fingers entwined on the crumbs
knuckles satined with jam and butter
Persephone tucks a lock of Ophelia’s hair
behind the shell of her ear and
Ophelia takes Persephone’s hand and gently
kisses the palm.
I grin and close the door behind me.
anatomy
But anyways
I’ve got a bone to pick with you
about your bone, or rather the lack
of your bone, boner, or any boning tools,
not to mention a piss stick,
cuz I grew up with a small black-and-white
television before cable,
only three channels
(and PBS, which made my Republican mother
suspicious)
plus the wrench we used to turn the dial,
which broke two houses earlier—
we had limited options for knowledge.
But anyways, cuz I was raised in a plastic-wrapped,
white-bread-and-mayonnaise,
sexless world,
one sister, no brothers, two puritan parents,
all of my anatomical knowledge of boys
came from you, Ken,
you dickless wonder.
I was so confused!
I had friends who had brothers
so I knew boys had a . . .
THING
and that the THING was their kryptonite
cuz if a boy got fresh
(this confused me, too, cuz “fresh” was a word
that belonged next to “lettuce” or “eggs”)
I was supposed to kick them between the legs
because the THING
was apparently quite fragile
and kicking it would really hurt
and the boy would leave me alone. One time
this came up at the dinner table
(at the parsonage: nice tablecloth, candles—just
picture it)
and my father, coughing loudly, red-faced,
said I should always punch him in the gut first
and reserve
THING-kicking to th
e very last,
if the boy was so stupid
that my punch didn’t scare him off.
But anyways, I took off your clothes,
Ken.
A lot.
I studied between your legs, front and back
baffled
cuz I was pretty sure
that the vaguely putty-colored,
plastic, flat surface of your crotch
was not the THING
of playground lore
or my father’s discomfort.
My imagination tended toward castles
and dragons and talking mountains,
not your junk.
Not even after my own Barbie bits—
boobs, butt, bulbous bodacious
babeness
(check yourself, Ken; I was eleven
when that shit went down)—
not even after I “blossomed”
to quote my father’s excruciating phrase,
did I understand the THINGness.
You see, I remained for years
pig-ignorant of its precise geography.
So you can imagine my surprise
when I finally got comfortably naked
with a sexual partner fully equipped with a
THING and I turned on the light to study
this specimen.
(It must be noted that the THING wilted a bit
under the spotlight’s glare, but later rallied.)
And I was shocked, shocked I tell you,
to discover that the THING, while definitely rooted
in the body’s southern hemisphere
is not literally between your legs, but rather
proudly planted in the Brillo pad of pubic hair
that grows on the front lawn of your crotch.
Who knew?
But anyways, you let me down, Ken,
but I’ve made my peace with it. With you.
With the confused girl-child
who used to be me.
And Barbie? I’ve got nothing
to say to that bitch.
Not till she learns to walk
flat-footed,
like a real woman.
free the bleed
We bleed with the moon
near half our lives
but still
some guys think it’s freaky
disgusting, unnatural
The location of the vagina
between where we pee
and where we poop
is a design flaw, maybe,
but it doesn’t account for the shaming