To the man who came stumbling
across the street, asking what the meaning of life was, really asking
to come
inside, inside my house, my space, my body, really asking
if I was the kind of girl who’d be down for a ‘late-night-stumbled-across-the-street-
because-he-thought-they-must-be-drunk-enough-to-open-the-door-wide-to-lay-down-under-
him-to-determine-his-meaning-of-life’ kind of fuck, really asking
if I was fast enough to turn the key, slide inside, switch the bolt, really asking
what insanity fuels a belief there might be humanity in the legs
you want to sever apart:
To the teenager who whistled from behind his cupped hand covering his
eyes, his cowardice, really covering
all the music videos watched with the volume on mute while his mom
went to the grocery, all the center folds his brother left splayed
on the floor, all the ‘wife beaters’ folded into Hanes packages
the older, cooler boys say he’s got to get, all telling
his thirteen years a woman’s body is a battle ground
for his fight with pubescent insecurity, for no blood
as red as his
could run beneath her hips, could pump life to her chest, could pulsate through her brain,
really covering the way his glance shifts to his taller companion,
seeking approval,
really covering his terror:
To the shadowy figure who leaned his mouth
out the window rolled down one inch, drawling from his Toyota Camry: “you cold,
baby?” his friend chuckling behind the wheel, really drawling
about the length of my skirt, the bareness of my legs, the way the lack of layers
landscapes my silhouette, really drawling
the sidewalk to school is not what it seems, is not the slow walk taking in the wonder of the world, is not the breath to seek the last glimpses of sunlight, is not the sacred
earth for feet to grace, is rather the runway for his repulsion:
To the forty year old whose growl whipped back toward my walking home ears
from the minivan speeding past, mid-escape before
his words had a chance to raise the daggers
he assumed the blonde with a book bag was too weak to wield…
‘wanna fuck?’:
To you:
tell me,
tell me,
tell me,
tell me,
tell me what you’re really saying
tell me what lingers on your soul as you speed
tell me what the corners of your brain whisper when you whistle
tell me what fears gnaw at your serenity
tell me what you mean by your life
tell me what I would see looking at you uncovered
tell me,
from where shall I seek compassion?
Tell me,
baby,
because I wasn’t cold.
callie daniels-howell 