i don’t like men very much these days
i’m sorry, i said. i didn’t
mean to make trouble. that’s why i hadn’t
said a word for days while that boy
barraged me with messages about
my curly hair and creamy legs.
not an inch of my body is
impervious to the male libido.
when it wants to move mountains,
the world gives it a bulldozer.
i used to fight harder
until a penis was rammed down my throat
try it, he said. you’ll like it. as if it
was asparagus and i an obstinate child.
i was repulsed by the largeness of it,
the pinkness, the straining veins ready to burst.
i did not like it, but he said if i stopped
he would leave. i could not bear
the susurrus: what does she do
to drive them away? (okay, okay).
god, how i long to live on an island
and turn men into pigs. instead i wear
low-cut tops. i have shrunk to
105 pounds, i can feel myself
dissipating into reed-thin air. i think
anyone could
squelch me. i was made to expand.
as a child i would let go of my helium
balloons from the grocery store just
to watch them rise. i didn’t realize
how quickly they fall, resignedly oozing
air. they lie dejected on pavement
to be flattened like pancakes by
pick-up truck tires. their ebullience is
short lived. they are not supposed to
dance. the air has been siphoned
from my lungs; my vocal chords
are cauterized. i no longer know how
to fill the space i’ve been told
not to take up.
babysitting
emilia threw a tantrum today. i want
a banana! and there were
none in the fruit bowl. i hauled her
to the next-door neighbor’s house to
ask for a banana.
i was wearing my defund the police
shirt; i forgot the neighbor is a cop.
sorry, no bananas, he said brusquely,
shutting the door in our faces as if
we were trying to sell him car
insurance. i apologized. i’m not sure
if it was for emilia or the shirt.
i want a banana! i buckled her in her
car seat and drove to wegmans. inside
the store, i held her even though she’s
too big for that now. her ears were red,
her snot and tears dribbled down my
neck in rivulets. in the checkout
line, she clutched her barely
ripe chartreuse banana tighter than
the lap bar on a rollercoaster.
why must grief have an expiration
date? one hour for a toddler’s
temper tantrum before she’s
quarantined in her room. one year
for my father’s death before i had to
turn my homework in on time again.
i gave the kid the goddamn banana.
the words shimmer, like wind chimes
that won’t stay still. it’s easier to scream,
to shred your throat into pulled pork bits.
i wasn’t asking her for peace - just quiet.
language could never hope to contain
our requiems.
Frances Brogan is a student and writer in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Her work has been featured in Blue Marble Review and The New York Times, among others. Frances enjoys rainy days and wandering through modern art museums. Her favorite poets are Mary Oliver and Sylvia Plath.