The only time a stranger whispered
dyke at me on the street, I thought
at least someone noticed.
I am holding the hand
of at girl not even yet my girlfriend
and not at all sure
how I feel about the word
but something about the streetlights
& the whiskey
must make this look like love. Continue reading
Rachel asks the women
raise your hand if you got to be a child
and your arm is a balloon
the parade has given back its flight, greedy
to claim the air of this small and selfish
victory, this plot that is not promised.
Though you know the stories of those who flinched
at the question. You have watched them spill
over notebooks, through tears, through panic.
How easily you have forgotten your lucky life.
In silence, Rachel leads the women
into the woods, a piñata dangling
between two cedars as a game
solely for the hands that were not raised.
The Tribe That Is Not You.
All forty women hold
their breath as bats bang against the mouth
of this unmovable creature, every swing
a gut-punch to the legacy of absence.
It is the only piñata
you prayed would never open.
It is the first time this destruction
did not lead to anything