for the sense that somehow women
are weaker
or foul
or damned
because we bleed once a moon
our bodies are muddy rivers
overflowing the banks to fertilize the fields,
hurricaning oceans with the energy
of time, tide, and galaxies,
silver ice caps defying the sun’s
feeble attempts to melt us
we bleed and grow stronger
some of us breed, pouring blood
into love, planting his seed in our egg
creating life and feeding it
our red-coated strength
birthing in a torrent of salt
and blood
we are mountains
don’t call it a period:
call it an
exclamation point
shame turned inside out
Sisters of the torn shirts.
Sisters of the chase
around the desk,
casting couch, hotel
room, file cabinet.
Sisters dragging
shattered dreams
bruised hopes
ambitions abandoned
in the dirt.
Sisters fishing
one by one
in the lake of shame;
hooks baited with fear
always come back empty.
Truth dawns slow
when you’ve been beaten
and lied to,
but it burns hard and bright
once it wakes.
Sisters, drop
everything. Walk
away from the lake, leaning
on each other’s shoulders
when you need
the support. Feel the contractions
of another truth ready
to be born: shame
turned
inside out
is rage.
callout
we’re sisters of the march
you and me
heavy backpacks digging
through our skin, bloody footprints
evidence of the miles we’ve walked
it happened to you, too
I know it did
that’s why I’m so confused
I see your scars, that flinch around your eyes
when another dude loud-plows over your words
cuts you off from the herd on purpose
stands too close, drags your name to his fame
eats our time by not sharing the mic
gets paid twice as much for half the work
flirts with girls trust-blinded and excited
cuz he’s buying the drinks
it happened to you, too
I know it did
but when the evidence of another victim
is presented
bruised, battered, dented, and shattered
you snort derision, bark suspicion
envisioning our past world
where girls had to shut up and take it
like you did, unsupported in even ordinary ways
never daring to report or demand a criminal
court investigation, no—you sneer
even though her flirtation was not an invitation
to degradation
he raped her
and you, still bleeding decades later
aren’t healed enough to help, instead
you’ve become that bitch pissing on our sisters
in a feeble, feline climb to the top
claws out
it happened to you, too
I know it did, I can smell it
I see how pain frames your crooked smile,
that quick shift to defense,
chin up, fists ready
I’m sorry you didn’t get the help you needed
you deserved a soft afghan wrapped around you
people to hold your hands
while you learned to walk again
so stand with us now
let’s be enraged aunties together
enthroned crones, scythes blazing
instead of defending these men
who laugh at you when you turn your back
lean on me
ignore stupid advice
Don’t get killed
Don’t get robbed
Don’t get billed for jobs
that were abandoned.
Don’t let your house burn
or your pipes burst
or your children curse
Don’t let your purse get stolen.
Don’t get trapped underwater
Don’t get food poisoning or the flu
(for God’s sake, get vaccinated)
Don’t get cancer, seriously,
do not get cancer.
Don’t get T-boned by a drunk
Don’t get struck by lightning
Don’t get allergies
Don’t get depressed
Don’t get noticed by the IRS
Don’t get catfished
or gaslit
Don’t get ghosted by an ex
Don’t get talked into a bigger car
Don’t get bitten by a rabid dog
Don’t get your boo angry
Don’t get cheated on
Don’t get called out
dragged
tagged in pics
you don’t remember
Don’t get raped
cuz the jackasses and idiots will say
that’s your fault, too.
The Reckoning
The Reckoning
is born as whispers
which turn into snowflakes
melt into rainn
weep onto quiet fields
wake seeds
buried in the shit.
Dad-men, madmen,
fathers of daughters unpowered
by your brothers of the hunt
your bull and guilt,
creeping filth
like a five-o’clock shadow
you’re afraid.
The Reckoning feeds
seeds that stretch in the night
to eat the dark
drink the moon
demand the dawn
claim the sun
rub it on our skin
soak it into our bones.
So afraid, manly men, you’re unmade
by the mirror,
horrified cuz no matter how hard
you try, how loud the cheers amplified
by a surround-sound system
of institutional lies
you can still hear us.
The Reckoning
transforms us into tigers
hunting you down
one by one,
dragging you by the nape
of your dirty necks
to face her
face him
face them
the souls possessed of the bodies you stole
for what you thought was just a few minutes.
And after the crop is harvested
the fields cleared of rocks and stubble
swords beaten into plowshares
dirt furrowed
the new seeds, planted deep and cared for,
will grow into strong children
with kind hands and strong bodies
and honorable hearts
the first generation unscarred
untouchable
that’s your loss
and our triumph
sincerely,
Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way.
Maybe we should shout
out to all the dudes who didn’t rape
us. Or even try.
Let’s celebrate those
who ask permission
before touching and
—get this—
respect the answer!
High five, you lovable hunk of manhood!
You true Warrior of the Sword!
Thanks for not slipping me a roofie!
So grateful you didn’t gang-rape
me with your roommates!
I didn’t get herpes
from you, because you are so awesome
you didn’t hit
me, then shove your dick in my mouth!
You rock!
A brave new world
of greeting cards
dawns.
Dear Boss,
Just a heads-up to let you know
I’m sending flowers
to your mother
to tell her how wonderful you are
because you’ve never pulled out your dick
and masturbated in front of me.
Dear College President,
I am proud to announce that none of my professors
this semester
tried to force me to blow them.
Those lawsuits have made a difference!
Great job! Keep it up!
(Sorry about that pun.)
(Actually, no. Not sorry at all.)
It’s not just what you say, but how
right?
not responsible for contents
The letter came from a prison
on the first page the man wrote
that he read Speak,
then he spoke, wrote his trauma, his boy
body the toy of an uncle for so long
that his Before It Happened was too short
to remember
on page two he wrote more
furtively, turning his hurt
into hunger, thundering, covering
the truth of his circumstances
the accusations of his molestation
of his stepdaughters, all
of them under seven years old
he told a tale of justice failed,
jailed innocent, he declared
wondering why the world
had turned against him
line after scrawled line
he mounded his hurts into a bonfire
of his vanities to burn
out the damning and hide
his crimes in smoke
I dug around, found the other side
to the story, before his trial
he confessed on Facebook
that a different person
lived inside of him
and that the different person
might . . . have hurt . . . the girls,
maybe,
if it happened, he was sorry
sort of
the jury convicted him in sixty minutes
the judge sentenced him to ninety years
in prison
where he scribbles with a poison pen
when you get a letter from jail
the envelope is stamped
“Not Responsible for Contents”
but somehow,
we are
Catalyst
I wrote a book about a girl who loves chemistry
a cross-country runner, preacher’s daughter
only applies to MIT, and well, complications ensue
she’s a little like me, but not much
to the outside world, it seems her life is perfect
but she’s got a hole in her heart, panic in her veins
dread stalking close
she runs to stay ahead of it
her name is a wayfinder
Kate—the sound of an ax splitting wood
Malone—which is “one,” “lone”
“alone” and “Ma,” if you look close enough,
her mother died a long time ago
and that ache will never go away
I knew that Kate’s I’m fine! mask was suffocating
but I didn’t know what would convince her
to take it off
she needed a catalyst
that spark, a goad to force her out of her shell
so she could see herself for the very first time
one night, after hours of scribbling
and throwing out pages,
frustrated with my Kate quandary, I doze-dreamed
fingers dribbling sand by the ocean
of my imagination
I watched
as a new girl appeared
an angry girl
hands fisted out of habit
toes scuffing the dirt
in the yard;
dirt on the floor
grease on the stove
grime on her body
left by her father
the smelly girl
who everybody looks at
but nobody ever sees
Teri Litch
her last name means “corpse”
readers bewitched by a book
rarely peek under the lid of names
to the stewpots of boiling imagery below
but I need to taste a name’s marrow
to write a character to life
kids like Teri Litch
don’t have running water at home
they go unnoticed until the smell is unavoidable
and a kind teacher
offers to help with the laundry
and the faculty quietly collects canned food
so lunch won’t be her only meal
few realized that the book
is really Teri’s story, deliberately told
through Kate’s cloudy vision
cuz Kate is still learning how to see
the girls are catalysts for each other
their collisions changing the course
of their lives, friendship grows
in the most unexpected places
face my truth
This is not
a resting bitch face
This is
a touch-me-and-die face
a boy, a priest unholy
I was once a happy kid,
the man said
altar boy,
Boy Scout, shortstop
born on Sunday,
son and oldest brother
ten years old,
then eleven,
I loved the Lord our Father
Father Michael gave
me cup wine sip
wafer mouth open
he blessed me,
invited me
(special! so special!)
to the wreck room,
the re-creation room
wood-paneled basement lair
below the rectory
i was chosen
by the Lord,
father michael purred.
i had potential,
father michael told my parents
who never once asked
“Potential for what?”
the wreck room stank
of moldy clothes,
sweat and desperation
sweet wine and manipulation
vomit, candy, and exploitation
the taint of horror
he was a man of God
Christ,
i thought
he was God
one night, my dad smelled
the stains on my uniform
from St. Michael the Archangel Elementary,
where father michael taught math
and subjects unholy in the wreck room
Dad’s face a volcano
on the verge of eruption,
i explained
he stayed silent,
clock ticking on the wall
silent as he burned
my uniform in the trash
barrel behind the garage.
He lied to Mom, said he wrecked my
uniform with bleach. My fault, he told her,
not his.
Not your fault, he told me
but don’t say a word
not a single word
to anyone.
Ever.
i still had to go to church
after that, though i stopped serving
at the altar, thank God.
When the time came
to kneel at the feet
of the priests
for Communion,
baby-boy bird mouth open
waiting to be sanctified
my dad knelt by my side.
My dad stared
at father michael feeding
me the Body and the Blood
with stained hands
my dad’s heart thundered
like a volcano, hungry
to destroy.
I don’t go to church anymore,
the man said. Not many do.
Infected by the angel-cloaked demons
whose hymns condemned us to darkness
with a smile;
we are legion.
loud fences
when I went to elementary school,
Wednesday afternoons
were for art projects and library books
and playing outside
because I wasn’t Catholic
all the Catholic kids left after lunch on Wednesday
and walked to the parochial school down the block
for lessons from the priests and the nuns
everyone knew about the dangerous priest there
even kids like me who never met him
don’t get caught in a room alone with that one,
they said
he liked hurting kids
bad and gross hurting
which is a good way to describe sexual abuse
when you’re ten years old
I traveled to Australia a while back
to speak at conferences, schools, and libraries
and be astounded by everything
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