Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is much too close to night
Ignore your mother’s nags and jolts
Let us run, on blood-stained tippy toes
The muffled whistles
From men with sisters on dead-end sidestep streets
And chain cheap restaurants with chicken wings
Of criminal condition
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit
In the room the men barge in
Staring at women Stockholm thin
The unknown man who rubs his back upon my bare skin
The unknown man who rakes his hands through damp dry hair
Licked his tongue into the hollows of an unassuming heart
Lingered upon the fool who stood apart
Let her fall upon her back, soot covering his tracks
Slipped from guardrail grasps, made a sudden trap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
He carried her about his house, to never fall asleep
And will there be a time?
For the unknown man who slides along the street,
Rubbing his back upon my bare skin
Will there be a time?, Will there be a time?
To prepare a face to meet his face
There will be time for them to decide on ‘murder’ and ‘create’,
But will there be a time for all the work and days of mine?
To lift and drop a sentence on his name?
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred missed decisions
For a hundred girls and women
Before they take their toast and tea
In the room the men barge in
Staring at women Stockholm thin
And indeed there is no time
To wonder, “Do I dare? and, “Do I dare?”
No time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-
(They will say: How her hair is growing thin!”)
Not truly knowing where I’ve been
My winter coat, my collar close enough to choke
My necklace cheap and chewed, clipped tight enough to bruise
(They will say: “But how she’s let herself go!”)
Do I dare
Disturb his universe?
In this minute there is time
For one decision with no reservations or revisions
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the fathers, the husbands, and the sons
They’ve measured my love with silver spoons;
I’ve known the voices of dying girls
Beneath the shouts from bolted rooms
So how then should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all-
The eyes that fix you in a formulated snare
And when I am frightened, sprawling underneath their stare
When I am pinned and wriggling on the floor,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all my stop-its, all my please-not-this
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all-
Arms that are toned and white and scarred
Arms that have wrapped around too far
Was it a sip from my drink
That’s making it so hard to think?
Arms that lie across my chest, that demand I must undress
And should I then presume?
And what now should I do?
Should I say, I must be home by dusk that my mother’s waiting up
And my friends, we came in pairs, is this something I should share?
If only I could see, scream to someone, God please help me
I should have been a man with scratched up fists
Shuffling across the streets, not caring who will see
And is this why my grandmother, my mother, my sister, sleep so fitfully?
Smothered by long fingers
Asleep… awake… these nights will linger
Shackled to my mind, is a strange version of you and I
They’ll say, should I make you some tea, grab some ice for your knees?
They’ll think this is simply another moment to add to my list of crises
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (bald by you) brought in to be displayed,
I am no man – and here’s no great matter;
I have seen other moments like this one flicker,
I have seen people who count themselves as juries and judges snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups of tea and bandages for my knees
Among the porcelain people, to talk of you and me,
Would it have been worthwhile,
To have ceased to hide the matter with a smile
To have squeezed his universe into a ball
To roll it towards an overwhelming decree
To say: “I am Lazarus, come for the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all” –
No, he would simply set up an alibi with his friends
And say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the picket signs and the court room cries and the he’s a good guy
After the naked stares, after the she wouldn’t dare, after the girls whose names spell a bloody trail
And this, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
And a businessman turned my nervous words into patterns and a scream:
Would it have been worth while
If he, settling the score throws off the truth for wistful smiles
Turning towards the jurors, he says;
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No, I am not Ophelia, nor will ever be;
Though like her I’ve lost my life to men
who would not let me breath
false words might spell my death
Politic, cautious, and meticulous.
Full of ink-stained promises
And in a fit of unrest.
lies spilled out from my chest
So, they will call me the Fool.
If I grow old … If I grow old …
Will you not touch the tops of my trousers if the bottoms are rolled?
If I part my hair behind? If I don’t say a peep?
If I wear a long white dress, a too tight ring, and walk upon the beach
I have heard of women who’ve forgotten
I do not think that will be me.
And would it have been worth it, after all?
Combing my damp dry hair into a ponytail?
when the wind blows, locking my bedroom door?
Not lingering out past dusk
on seedy sidewalks wearing cheap thin tank tops
Deep down voices would still wake us
we would still drown
