SHOUT(23)

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 bail

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 she tried college, but the PTSD dragged her home 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.