After He Calls Me A Low-Hanging Fruit
I have a dream in
which I am staring
at the dead branches
of a black tree, bold
against blue sky.
On the highest branch
stands a girl in a red
I am mesmerized
by the intensity
of color, so I can’t
be sure whether she
jumps or falls, but her
impact shakes me.
The red of her
uniform, the red of her
blood, of her insides—
that heap of red against
the grass looks,
to me, like apples.
Blackout is the tear in your dress. It is flashing
red and blue, the officer guiding you
to the curb. Blackout is your car crumpled,
a broken fist. It is lost time between
the bar and this intersection, this crossroads,
if you will. And you will—you must—because all signs
indicate your luck is spent. Blackout is knowing
in your muscles what has happened, but not knowing
how or when or with whom. Blackout is falling
into his bed, but before his hands are on you,
you have faded away. Blackout is nodding,
Yes, I remember, but this is a puzzle
missing pieces; the absences nag like the edge
of a chipped tooth or sharp prongs of an empty
setting that used to grasp a gem. It’s forgetting
where you left your shoes. It’s shame gagging you, fingers
prying you open. It eats you up, then spits
invectives. Blackout is for girls like you
who can be tossed like rag dolls, rearranged.
You won’t complain, won’t say a word to stop it.
You’re so far gone, you barely feel a thing.
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