Amanda sent me a poem about a week ago. She hesitated sending me this poem. She was afraid of hurting me, of making me angry that she should write me into a poem with my past abuse. She assured me for days before she sent it that it wasn't all about me--she was afraid I'd think the poem was entirely about me, and she didn't want me to be that overwhelmed. I remember opening with so much anticipation--and fear. I was afraid to see what she had written, and ashamed. And I found this poem, raw. It's painful seeing the parts that are about me, obviously. The nightmares, the flashbacks, though I've only had a flashback with Amanda as a result of a nightmare, waking in the middle of the night, unaware, really, that she was beside me, until I came back. And she held me. And she told me to imagine I was sleeping on her diaphragm--that I was stretched the length of it as if it were a hammock, and then she breathed slowly and deeply, holding me tightly to her, my head on her chest. Breathe, she told me, and after a while I stopped crying, though the shame never really goes away. And after a while, I was almost back asleep, and I remember her kissing me on the forehead, breathing deeply still.
** ** ** **
Watching You Sleep
I. Fear
another friend raped this week
the third this year
as far as they have told me
I cannot focus or stop crying in class
I cannot look into their faces
I�m exhausted
watching to see if the men who follow me off the bus
know which way they�re going
before I do
slowing my step
to let tall crowds of college boys
pass ahead of me
like my mama told me
I am never alone in a room
with a man
especially a co-worker
or a boss
my mother had her ass grabbed frequently at work
brought home waitress� leftovers
half-sandwiches and wrong orders
for my supper
and when she left my father
the cops were worse than the cooks had been
yet I think my fears may linger
in all the wrong places
thoughts caught
in dark alleyways
heavy steps coming up from behind
when all the time
the third rapist of the year
was invited into your home
and the second was a woman
though the first was the man on the bus
the man I always think is there
there is no safe place to look
my eyes scatter light like lampposts through the dark streets
the real streetlights never where they ought to be
useless as eyes
I cannot see
there�s no escape from useless thoughts
still I�m afraid
I�m afraid and I�m the only one I know
who has never been touched by this
II. Anger
there�s something bitter and gross in that thought
that I�m the only one I know and I�m afraid
something bitter and gross
not in experience but in feelings
thoughts that smother thoughts
I remind myself that I have done nothing
but there is no one else to give my anger to
I cannot understand
I only watch as you thrash beside me in bed
flashbacks
bad dreams
do you hear me
when you�re far away like that?
someone has taken pieces of you far away from me
and they are far away themselves
without names
most of them
those with names
make me especially angry
at myself
because I say nothing when I see them in passing
I do nothing
I keep my anger for the nameless close
hold my clenched fists behind my tongue
closed
III. Fear
fear after rage
is not what I expected it to be
not like fear in darkness
or fear alone walking quick or slow
keys clenched between my knuckles
I watch you sleep
try to keep the cats from making noise
don�t touch your trigger points
watch my words
I am afraid that you will say you�re sorry
for your tears
and your memories
what are you thinking?
I do not know and cry to think
that all these things are in my mind
and I am not the one this happened to
I have no idea what you�re going through
I am selfish
I only breathe
and try
try to keep your breathing
close with mine
breathe, I say,
and try to keep your breathing
close with mine
breathe, I say,
and try to keep your breathing
close �