Sympathy for Mitch

How she ruined you--dancing in the Saturnalia moonlight, rubbing women's history into her dishpan hands. Twelve years of giggling at your celebratory floats and striped ties, mocking you with her Queen Elizabeth wave. Gloria Steinem had her clip your balls, wanted your head on a platter. The Rapture: she taught your daughters to use Swiss Army knives and pronounce misogyny.

I know. I was beaten for twelve years, too. She was waiting every day, heavy gold rings on all fingers. She'd slap me to the ground, anger branding me. It was for  my own good: girls like me were blinded by filthy boys, strangled by devil-talk on telephones. I didn't slink about holding hands, I bleached them. And when I escaped, I danced in veils at midnight, cursing her name.

Still Dreaming of My High School Sweatheart, 25 Years Later

Still Dreaming of My High School Sweetheart, 25 Years Later

And this time
I'm sure I'll reach you
before your feet disappear
over the roof's edge,

or, if not, I'll see
your muddy eyes,
not just the shadow
fringe of your hair

as I sprint to you,
my arms all tendon,
pulling me closer,
fingers at your neck

and your name
in my throat
like a prayer
I can't swallow or scream.

Bleeding, Still Bleeding

In the dream, I’m pregnant, so we drive to the city, circle the block three times before we find the building behind the buildings, bland office with security door, buzzer, intercom demanding my name and appointment time. No protesters. He holds my hand longer than he ever has. Other women grip bags with robes tucked inside, whisper to their drivers—aunts, sisters, roommates, all groggy, annoyed by this inconvenient abortion. Panoramic pictures span the waiting room walls—Philadelphia, San Francisco, Miami: This is where you’ll go without your unwanted children.

In the dream, I have to confess to the counselor that I’ve been to the clinic before, in the spring, when my husband promised he’d get a vasectomy. Six months later, I’ve bought the peas and briefs, and am doing my part for our family. We have three children already, can’t afford another or two or more. And I can’t do this again. Or again. I crawl into the paper gown, my own robe and socks, pull myself up to the mirror over the sink and say I’m doing this to be a better mother to the three of you.

In the dream, the women are all single. One has a thirteen-year-old with Downs Syndrome. Another is sixteen, rail thin. Her mother is waiting. They haven’t told her father—a minister—who thinks they’re on a shopping spree, bonding over belts and shoes. A woman my age—mid-forties—says this was a menopausal surprise. She has raised three kids already. Her ex doesn’t believe this one is his. Her divorce was final last week. One woman, tattoo of stars on her neck, holds a rosary and says God forgives people who ask and repent. I’ll repent for the rest of my life.

In the dream, I fall asleep to the cold creeping up my arm like a spider, the elderly nurse, her lips lined like a web, counts back from ten. I wake, recovered, thick gauze between my legs. I’ve been carved out, hollow again. I call my sister, ask her: What was it like when the raped girl—sixth months gone—told you her baby had fingernails? Did you cry when she said she didn’t care about getting rid of it? Did you wish, for a moment, you’d never been born? Are you still bleeding, these five years later?