SHOUT(26)
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;