When we talked about flying
I said I always dreamt of taking pictures from above
a world that was easier to take in all at once than collecting the pieces we were chipping off
Salt ponds in Picasso paint
a desert, my hips
I dreamt of you again last night. You come to me angry, usually, fitful and mean. But the last few nights, you’ve just sat watching me. From the corner of the room, up in the stands. That same look from under the umbrella. Were you just visiting as they opened up your body and wrapped it back together?
I should’ve known from the Nashville number calling that afternoon something awful had happened. I called back yesterday, but it never stopped ringing.
the future holds nothing
that isn’t already webbed between your fingers
half-moons and sunrises,
glint of tears and years gone.
you watch the city like stars,
everything blinking back at you
hold your hands to your face
red line of the horizon
remember that time on the water?
Orion looking down
and laughing with us
echoes and ripples
and still the morning comes
aerial and all light,
lean back and look under
the question is whether to attend the visitation
or the funeral
flowers or bones or meat cut from your shoulder
when the bloodwine spills to kneel and lap
and gather cracker crumb
cry, but never as much as the family
heads bent, singing through the hymnal echo
don’t think of your father
he was a father, brother
the reverend called him
by his wife’s name, unexpected
and everyone laughed
your mother said she failed you,
not teaching you these words
don’t think of your mother
a memory: turning in the exam second
because you were afraid of standing first
in front of this sharp-witted slight man
who told you to carry a clipboard
people yield to the power of a clipboard
wishing you’d stood first
Ten divorced men commit suicide each day – a rate at least three times higher than that of divorced women.
Like I needed to think about this on a Friday afternoon at 5p. Fuck you very much Fatherly.
I haven’t posted this on Facebook because I’m questioning myself. Because I consider myself one of the luckiest women I know, and that’s not because I have a slate clear of harassment.
Look at all the women who have come forward. Are my experiences on par with theirs?
Should I say me too because an anonymous someone (boy? girl?) grabbed my ass at the 8th grade dance and I couldn’t tell who it was? Why do I feel the need to be politically correct and not assume gender when I know another girl didn’t grab me like that?
Should I say me too because I told a boyfriend no once, and he climbed on top of me anyway? Should I say me too even though he apologized?
Should I say me too because of all the warnings my mother ever gave me? For every time she asked me to call or text her when I was home safe.
Should I say me too for every time I thought about how I might defend myself? Car keys. Gun. Fists. Lamp. Chair. Phone. Dogs. Whatever was in reach.
Should I say me too because of the cat calls and whistles and leers that I can’t even count?
Should I say me too because there are women I know who won’t, who have had experiences far worse than mine?
There is not a woman alive who has a clean slate, whether they tell you or not.
I came across something today that has me re-thinking this post.
The #metoo movement isn’t just about women. Terry Crews, Brendan Fraser. 15 men coming forward to confront Kevin Spacey. Harassment and abuse happens to men, too. By other men. By women. Predators take many forms. Men laugh it off as a joke. “It happened, but I was just kidding.” Women are ignored.