Poetry

If it is true
that holiness
does not
dissolve—

I want to know
what happens
when I cannot
see it.

Surely there is nothing
of which it is afraid

but where does it go—
those times
when it seems
to have
disappeared.

I watch as
hate spreads
like wildfires
scorching
the land of the free.

I do not
recognize
this place
with its fear
and anger.

Wherefore
the hearts
yearning
to breathe
free?

What of the land
that loved
mercy
more than
life?

Return to us
oh holiness
I pray thee—

Let us
be spacious
and brave
as we search out
a balm
to heal
our wounded souls.

Under beautifully
indivisible skies
that cannot
be taken
away.

She described it as utter confusion
paired with knowing
and I understood that to be in this body
afterwards
was to remain at the scene of the crime
always.

Invisibly
solitarily
knowing what had happened,
but never why.

Someone once asked why
I didn’t scream
and I wanted to say
that I hadn’t had a voice then
and I wondered how it was
they could have not known that.

The screams came later—
in the middle of the night
waking up alone and afraid
afraid of the silence
afraid of the dark
afraid of the night.

Terror engulfed in silence—
confused knowing,
dislocation,
abandonment.

Indivisibly I remain
at the scene of the crime—
no longer silent
no longer confused
no longer alone.

Watch a video performance of this poem

What I was Wearing

Was this:

From the top
a white t-shirt, cotton
short-sleeved
and round at the neck.

This was tucked into
a jean skirt
(also cotton)
ending just above the knees
and belted at the top.

Underneath all this
was a white cotton bra
and white underpants
(though probably not a set).

On my feet
white tennis shoes
the kind one plays tennis in.

And then finally
silver earrings, and lip gloss.

This is what I was wearing that day
that night
that fourth of July
in 1987.

You may be wondering
why this matters
or even how I remember
every item
in such detail.

You see
I have been asked this question
many times
it has been called to my mind
many times
this question
this answer
these details.

But my answer
much awaited,
much anticipated
seems flat somehow
given the rest of the details
of that night
during which
at some point
I was raped.

And I wonder
what answer
what details
would give comfort
could give comfort
to you
my questioners
seeking comfort where
there is
alas
no comfort
to be found.

If only it were so simple
if only we could
end rape
by simply changing clothes.

I remember also
what he was wearing
that night
even though
it's true
that no one
has ever asked.

In response to "Parking Meter" by Dean Marshall Tuck

It makes me almost too angry to write that I spent some of my precious time - 13 minutes of my life that I’ll never get back - looking up the author's name because I needed to confirm that the writer is a man and I wanted to see his face perhaps even his eyes.

Because in the list of things to spend money on “prostitutes” would never have made it onto any list I would ever make about ways to buy time.

If “prostitutes” makes it onto your list of things to buy with money, what does that make you?

He writes that he started thinking about the ways we buy time on this earth and in among the list of things that seem in some ways essential to life things like music connections to others time in places we’d want to be with people we’d want to see there is this horrible word: prostitutes.

As if it were as ordinary as a theme park or a phone call. Rent money the light bill food.

I hate this poem. I hate that this word was slipped into a list of things that are otherwise normal and relatable it is not.

And so, I ask- what does that make you?

To have this word on your list of things to spend money on to extend your time.

What does that make you?

A man who sees women as commodities things to be bought and sold. The sound of coins dropping into so many rented holes.

The poem “Traffic” is a creative work of fiction. The use of the pronoun ‘you’ within this poem is intended as a universal address to the reader and does not refer to any specific individual. The poem employs poetic license, allowing for creative deviations from conventional language and factual accuracy to enhance its artistic expression. Additionally, the use of metaphor is integral to the poem’s imagery and should be interpreted figuratively rather than literally. This work serves as cultural and literary criticism, offering commentary on societal issues through artistic expression.

This is what we do:

we mark it off
with yellow tape
DANGER
POLICE
CRIME SCENE
GET BACK
STAY AWAY
CRIME SCENE
DANGER
KEEP OUT.

And then
when it’s over
we tear it down.

Since
(after all)
no one lives there
anymore.

Who would
live there
who could
live there
after what happened.

Tear it down.

No one
lives
there
anymore.

This is what I did:

I put my clothes
back on
my body
after he was done with me
and then
I left.

(that is
I have been trying
to leave
but I am stuck here
won’t anyone help me
tear it down.)

GET BACK
STAY AWAY
CRIME SCENE
DANGER
KEEP OUT.

He was wearing board shorts
(It was a pool party, after all).

A blinding smile
(with preternaturally white teeth).

A faint dusting of white powder
(just beneath his perfectly sculpted nose).

Bare chest puffed out with pride
(strong arms resting on his hips just so).

Bare feet
(because, of course, he was at home).

I remember his curly brown hair
and his energy.

His strong jaw
the way Malibu backlit his frame at the pool.

And, of course, his sister’s room, down in the lower level
with the fan blowing ever so slightly overhead.

The weight of his body tearing me from sleep
my own confusion about what was happening.

(Why was he doing this?)
(Why wouldn’t he stop?)

And the fan —
the way it just kept going.

And then nothing
(in the dark, all wolves are hunters).

I didn’t know him
I saw the lights come down the driveway
I didn’t recognize the car
I was asleep.

There were three dogs that jumped out
They had big brown leather collars
With spikes
And holsters
For their knives.

My dog wasn’t there
But I wasn’t afraid of the man
Or his dogs and their knives
I was asleep.

And then I remembered about that book
The one where the men come and kill all of the dogs
All of her dogs
In the dark of the night
While she was asleep
Just before they raped her.

I didn’t have a dog back then
And even if I had
It wouldn’t have been with me there on that night in LA
I was asleep
But woke to the weight of him on top of me
Holding me down
Forcing himself inside me.

I wondered about the dogs’ knives
I wanted to ask them
What are they for?
Why are they attached to your collars like that?
But I was asleep.

We were asleep the night he came for us
My son curled up alongside me
The dog in her bed downstairs
No one made a sound that night.

It was the birds that finally woke me
And the morning light over the river
The images from the dream still vivid in my mind
I looked out the window to check for tracks in the snow.

The other day I remembered floating up into the sky
Somewhere in the Catskill mountains
I had been holding onto something that carried me up into the air
Weightlessly, effortlessly, I floated
I can’t remember now whether it was even real
Or just an artifact of all of those times I’d had to leave my body.

First, it is important to be alive
And to stay that way
Not just for you
But for you both.

Next, you must know how to fill things
Like big gaping holes inside hearts
Missing memories
Never celebrated birthdays.

You also must know how to erase things
(Eliminate them even)
Things like guilt
And sorrow, and tears.

And of course you must be things
Like beautiful and smart
Happy and accomplished
(In fact, if possible, it is helpful if you can just be everything.)

You must also be skilled
And know things
Like how to keep secrets
And be polite (thank you).

Finally, you must rise and shine
And rise and shine
Over and over and over again
As if everything depended on it.

Do not get discouraged
(That is not allowed)
Someday you will understand
It would have been impossible to do this any other way.

I found out about it
later.

About how
they were supposed to
record everything.

They listened to it
anyway.

They listened to
his date with me.

Crowded around the recorder
they listened
as I broke down.

They listened to me cry
when he tried to kiss me.

They listened to me
make tearful apologies.

They listened to me
try to explain
what had happened
that I had been raped
a few months before.

They listened to me
chokingly mutter
that I was sorry
for thinking I was ready to date
for ruining his night.

I found out later
that some of them laughed
as they listened to me
as they listened
to our date.

At the end of which
he was supposed to have sex
with me
and secretly record it
for them all to enjoy
a task they had all been given
a way to prove their worthiness
of brotherhood.

Still
they listened.

Crowded around the recorder
in the basement
of the fraternity house.

They listened to me
and they did not get up.
They did not run from the room.
They did not say turn it off.
They did not scream out
I can’t listen to this
I can't bear to listen to this.

They listened to me
and they did not cry.
They did not grab the recorder
and smash it against the wall.

They did not pound their strong fists on the floor.
They did not scream out
what is happening to us
what have we become.

I found out later
that some of them apologized
to him for me
for what an awful date I was.

But none of them ever apologized to me
even though
it’s true
they saw me
every day.

I want to go back
to do it all over again
starting the first night at the restaurant
the heavy velvet curtains
the way he slipped his hand into mine
leaned over and kissed my cheek
and later on up on the rooftop
a bottle of wine and the cool fall air
with my dog, and the glow of Manhattan.

I want to go back to that first night he stayed with me
I told him I needed to sleep
he said he never slept
I made us coffee in the morning
I still have the shirt he had been wearing that night
the one I pulled onto my own body that morning
it’s still on the bent metal hanger, wrapped in plastic
from the cleaners down the street.

I want to go back to my first trip to Utah
to feel the excitement
to not be exhausted
to not be afraid
to not feel the shock
heavy in my body like so many stones.

I want to go back to Central Park
to run and feel my strong legs carry me away
to marvel at the vast quiet spaces hidden in the city
to get lost in the bramble
to feel him slip his arms around
and pull me in for a kiss.

I want to go back
all the way back
to those days
in the beforetime
when I had him inside of me
when we were together always
inseparable
a single breath.

I want to go back
to the time when I didn’t know
when I wouldn’t have been able to imagine
the things that I now know.

I want to go back
to when Mom was still alive
and I wasn’t yet an orphan or a mother
but just a daughter
just a girl.

I want to go back
to be able to choose
to know that this is this and that is that
and to say yes I want this not that
I want it to be different
I want to be different.

I told her last week that I hadn’t felt myself since Mom died
that I hadn’t been the same
how could I be the same after all?
One day I had a mother
and then I had a box of ashes
and myself
of course, I had myself
and I still had him
I still had them

But now everything was different.

Bring to me your pain, love
with its knives and blood
its rage and terror
and relentless hunger to devour.

Bring to me your fear, love
set it down on my delicate flesh
pour it into my still fragile body
whisper it into my breath.

Bring to me your wound, love
tear it out of yourself
as if it had not always been there
as if it had not festered and taken hold.

Bring to me your sorrow, love
lift it up from your deepest parts
imagine that it could be contained
and that I might be able to hold it just so.

Bring to me your hopes, love
because I promised you could
because I wanted to share them
because I promised I would.

Bring to me your truth, love
with its aching regret
all of the hallowed out places
that I now know I cannot ever possibly fill.

I leaned over and fumbled for the clock
wondering whether it was morning yet
checking the big window for any light peeking through
knowing that sometimes
and especially these days
the way the snow throws up the moon’s shine
can easily mimic the dawn.

I decided instead
to just breathe
knowing as I did
that this would calm me down
and place me where I was
safely in my own bed
awake and alert
once again
in the haunting hours.

That night I had been asleep
my son stretched out alongside m
smelling of the creek and the forest
and the promise of spring.

I hadn’t been afraid that night
I hadn’t even known about him
I hadn’t seen his face yet
or the confidence in the set of his jaw
as he walked about in the dark.

It had been overcast and rainy for days
and when the sun finally rose in its early morning brilliance
it lit up the row of windows overlooking the pond
I screamed in terror at the line of smeared handprints
now visible at the very center of each otherwise
perfectly clean window.

And then, of course, there were the scant, smudged glove marks
in the bedroom
and the muddied footprint
at the edge of the window well
where he lost his footing and slipped
as he reached over to test the sash.

The police were no help
not at first anyway
and then afterwards, when I called again later,
I knew I could never call them again.

I hadn’t been afraid that night
the fear came for me later
after he had already left
when I knew he’d been there
when I understood that he’d been hunting me
all those months
watching
waiting
learning
getting to know my dog.

There were the beer cans near the shed
that I had assumed were the painters
the night sensor that had stopped working
the small hole in the fence
the feeling I had every time I walked past the tall yellow waders
the ones that had remained hanging untouched all those months
on a single hook in the wall
just next to the door in the basement.

When we finally packed up to move,
I found the hole that he had cut
hidden as it had been all of that time
just behind the waders.

Pin me to the lattice
that I might not fall again today
that I might feel the sun touch all of the places
long hidden from its rays.

Pin me to the lattice
that I might be able to stretch out just so
that I might feel my legs unfurl from their place against my chest
my arms reaching out as if in an embrace.

Pin me to the lattice
that I might lift my face up to the sky
so that my eyes might open wide
so blue and bright and true.

Pin me to the lattice
that its lovely patterns might be able to sustain me
that all of those delicate x’s
might recognize my plight.

Pin me to the lattice
that I might feel its reinforcements
that with it I might grow back together the broken parts
so I no longer have to stand in this body all alone.

There is a solemn quietness in the forest
that feels almost as if sound had ceased to exist
with all its stately old trees in various states
of nearly perfect disarray
the old cedar showcasing its stacked rooms with views onto the water
exposed roots intertwined so tightly with rocks
that they had no choice but to topple together.

Underneath the pine boughs we can see
great depressions in the snow
large elegant contours where the deer laid down to rest
now decorated with a spattering of needles matted
into the otherwise pristine white cover
their delicate tracks leading to and fro like so many pairs
of hearts crisscrossing the forest floor.

Sometimes in the late afternoons we venture there together
to run and pray and breathe in the trees
and marvel at the light brightening the very tops of the tall birch
and stop to rest on the large rock propped up by a vast tangle
of roots hidden just beneath the snow.

On the banks of the river
down where the cattails are thick with water
and no path has been cut
there stands an old hemlock tree.

I find her quiet beauty a comfort
her long limbs stretched out just so
parts of her roots peeking out like feet in the tall grass
her massive trunk too large to encircle with my own small arms.

Long ago, someone nailed a piece of wood into her side
there’s just a small part left now
the nails’ metal heads turned orange with rust
as if they had something important to say.

And then there is the scorched part of her
near the base, facing the river
her bark charred with black ash
as if it were coal.

Strewn about her there is rebar
abandoned campfires
discolored beer cans
the remains of an old rug.

And, of course,
there is me.

People sometimes ask:
Will you ever get over it?

It is not so much that they are waiting for this —

(for me
to get over it)

(How long ago did it happen now?)

It is rather that they want to believe
that they have to believe
(please, god, let it be true)
that one can get over it.

Just in case
it should happen to them
(please, god, let it be over now)
just in case it should happen
to their daughter
their partner
their wife
their mother sister brother
friend
child.

Just in case it should happen to them
(please, god, let it be over)
they ask
because they want to believe
that one can get over it
(please, god, let it be true)
striking so randomly
as it does
any time
(day or night)

anywhere
(in the alley
on the train
at the bus stop
in the stairway
the bedroom
the hallway)

without the least discrimination
(black white yellow brown
young old
man woman)

caring about nothing
relentlessly devouring everything in its wake
(please, god, let it be over now)
they ask because
they want to believe
they have to believe
(please, god, let it be true)
that one can get over being raped.

(Please, god, let it be true).

Try this:

Imagine
a world
where rape
was as despised
as deplorable
contemptible
unacceptable
as morally reprehensible
as lynching.

Imagine
a day
where violence
against women
was repugnant
rather than
ordinary

was tragic
catastrophic
and heartbreaking
rather than
entertaining.

Where women
were no longer
bought and sold
like so much chattel.

Were no longer
just
so many
rented holes.

And now:
try it at home.

Try it in the morning
over coffee
with toast.

Try it at the office
in the boardroom
the classroom.

Try it in the emergency room
and the courtroom.

Try it in the barracks
and on the battlefield.

Try it at the nightclub
in the bathroom
and the coatroom.

Try it at the bar
and the table.
Try it over dessert.

Try it
in the evening
before bed
with your partner
your spouse
your children
and grandchildren.

Try it on the bus
the train
the plane.

Try it in the alley.
Try it in your car.

Try it in the gym
on the playground
the football field
the basketball court.

Try it at church.

Try it everywhere
the implicit endorsement
of violence against women
is allowed to lurk.

The wood had become heavy by then
having sat all piled up together since just after the last snowfall.
That morning, the branches and sticks had soaked up
some of the night’s rain.
With my dog beside me, I looked around
for a pair of trees to hold the wood.

That first stack was tall and elegant,
held as it was between two strong birches.
Modest though they were,
they seemed to welcome their new load.
The dog was busy with the squirrels in their usual game,
teir shrill chirps piercing the air as she threatened
from the bottom of the tree
I lifted a pair of logs into my gloved hands,
remembering how the fingertips of the suede
had been burned through during the winter.
I carried the logs to the trees and placed them
against each other just so,
log by log, piece by piece,
listening for the gentle sound of the wood
nestling in its new place as I set them down.

When it was finally time to gather up the remnants of the morning’s big pile,
I turned to see the sun beaming through the stacks,
casting gentle rays of light through perfectly imperfect
gaps in the stacks held together by the trees,
and I wondered at the marvelous wood that would
keep me warm all winter
now transformed into some kind of rustic art
at home here in the forest.

I brushed at the log debris covering my arms
noted the fresh red scratches from the berry bushes
ran my right hand through my spiderwebbed hair
and thought about just how much of a lifetime away
that night in Los Angeles was from me now.

The trip I took with my brother after college
that one is stored in my hair
the scent of the mint shampoo as the outdoor shower washed it down my body
smelling it even now brings me back to that spring in Jerusalem.

I had almost forgotten about the modest blue shirt hanging in my closet
nearly crowded out by the French clothes I bought for work
it is where the memories of sleeping on the couch in her hospital room are stored
it was just starting to get cool outside, and I needed the long sleeves
how strange that my beautiful sister did not outlast this simple cotton shirt.

My mother is stored deep inside me
as if I had carried her in my very body
as if she had lived there for all those years
I felt her today as a hawk flew overhead
what I wouldn’t give for another day with her.

And Lizzy
it’s not really that she is stored somewhere, but that we are.
For her, I exist in the water
in the lake where she died
it is where our memories are
if it is even possible to store memories that you never even really had.

My son cannot be contained
cannot be stored
but he is saved in every cell of my body
Ilook at him and see that he also carries me with him
I am stored in his eyes
his skin
his strong jaw
his sharp words
the ease with which he moves his body
and the certainty we share about the depth of our love for each other
something that scares us both.

Sometimes I imagine that I am a magical vessel
that I am able to carry things too heavy for my human body
things that are too hard or elusive to pick up
things that cannot be grasped
that cannot be forgotten
things like the river, and the air
moonlight and songs
and, of course, love.

In this my heavenly body
I know that I am whole
(which seems impossible somehow
after everything that’s happened.)

I wish I could go back in time now
to feel once again all the almost-forgotten days
a little girl camping under the big skies out west
a teenager teetering along the shore of the beach
that night with my husband on the roof
the one when we had just met.

In this my heavenly body
there was a night when blood was shed
IVs were placed
a bandage over cotton on my arm
they told me to take care
that is wasn’t my fault
that she wouldn’t have made it after all.

In this my heavenly body
I breathe the deep scents of the forest
my eyes marvel that the hemlock needles are the very shade of my hair
and my eyes the very color of the water
exactly when we are both bathed in the sun.

In this my heavenly body
my mouth has learned to speak truths
to combat the fears stalking my mind
to channel the rage welling up in my heart
to say no — you cannot do that.

In this my heavenly body
I grew a boy.

Sometimes, in the afterwards

I feel the sun warming my arms
and am grateful for its heat
I marvel at the river bed
with its remnants of long toppled trees
and their still-new growth
I listen to the birds sing
and the woodpecker drumming
his long beak into a tree

I am reminded of my friend Harry’s words about enchantment
how once it comes, it somehow stays with a place
at least sometimes
and I notice that I feel alive
the shift in my breathing
the small trail of sand from my son’s feet.

In the sacred spaces
in the afterwards
when the light penetrates the broken parts
I can feel my very soul exhale
somewhere behind my ribs and in the back of my throat

And I know that the darkness is only temporary.

I could feel

my breath
the air
rushing in
and out
of my lungs
steadily
rhythmically

beads of sweat
lining up
all along my skin
trickling down
my face

my heart
pumping blood
working
to send signals
to send life
throughout
my arms
my legs
my back

my body
I could feel

and for a moment
I thought
perhaps
I will fly away

take these legs
and soar
up into the ethers

give snowflakes a home
inside my mouth
all along the way

raise my arms
up over my head
rejoice

at last
I could feel
my body

as I watched the miles
go by
underfoot
running
so effortlessly now

as if I was just
another part
of the air

I could feel
my breath

and I realized
finally
(at least for this moment)
I had come home.

I return to the forest to grieve
in a quiet
so somber
one can almost
feel the weight
of absence—
all the memories
that will never be made.

Alone with the old trees
their branches
like so many arms reaching
sending shadows
across fresh fallen snow
in the fading light
I hear
the prescient words
of a young poet
like so many threads lingering in the air
weaving together water, sand, hair, and light—
whose own heart’s beating
was cut
so unimaginably short.

As the winter’s twilight dwindles
we hold you
in silent stillness
and will carry you with us
ever more.