THIS POEM STARTED AS A COLLAGE, BUT I DON’T WANT TO GET SUED
This poem started as a collage, but I don’t want to get sued. This poem started when I began taking, one at a time, photos of marked-up flyers adhered by some well-meaning staffer to the doors of dented, metal bathroom stalls. This poem started as a guerrilla art fantasy in the shape of the university’s logo, but the words of dozens of anonymous girls looking out for each other when their presidents won’t got too hard to read.
“Our esteemed public university does not tolerate any form of sexual misconduct, including sexual violence, sexual harassment, relationship violence (dating and domestic violence), sexual exploitation, and stalking.”
OUR ESTEEMED PUBLIC UNIVERSITY LIES.
“IT’S ON US to help prevent sexual violence.”
But when will they hold RAPISTS accountable?
“Recognize that non-consensual sex is sexual assault.” RAPE.
“Institution regulations require mandatory reporters to file incidents with the Title IX coordinator. Mandatory reporters can help the university in preventing future incidents.”
INSTITUTION LET MY RAPIST TRANSFER HERE.
“Consent can be withdrawn at any time, as long as it is clearly communicated.”
“Keep an eye on someone who has had too much to drink.”
PLZ REPORT SO THEY DON’T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN.
“Support is available 24/7 by calling the Victim Advocacy Crisis Line.”
What do you think men write on these?
They probably wipe their ass with them.
Men use urinals, not stalls. They don’t see these.
If they even have them in their restrooms.
“If you see someone who may be unable to consent to sexual activity, help them get somewhere safe.”
CAMPUS RE-ENROLLED A CONVICTED RAPIST BECAUSE HIS UNDERGRADUATE TALENT OVERRIDES HIS CRIMES.
“Talk to your friends honestly and openly about sexual violence.”I hope you all get justice.
APOKRISIS
I pray thee sigh not, speak not,
draw not breath
— Swinburne
tresses, thighs, flesh and spirit
confronting darkness, his sardonic bondage
cutting sidewise, that buried sting
his feigned solicitude incessant
blessings never felt but mine to justify
for Her—always for Her—a better kind of shame
shudder and convulse, that cleaving marrow
harvests of my inconsolable rage
KODACHROME
The world you shot in kodachrome
(the Gulf on the corner of Memorial and Cherokee,
your sister, masquerading as a dime-store Bacall,
the fraying carpet of the Egyptian Ballroom
in an overlooked corner that tugged at my too-tall patent leather heels
as I cowered from your shutter,
seeking reprieve)
rendered a dynamism more vibrant
than what I ever felt in reality
Amateur scenes encased in stale, creased cardboard
of an Atlanta only some of us want to remember
(that was your only legacy, are you proud of these minute hauntings?)
We’re strangers now
but an eight-step climb up creaking attic stairs
leads me to your archive
(your sister never cared enough to store your photographs--
or all that is left of you in the city,
the one where we pretended to be far more glamorous than our student paychecks could ever allow us to afford--
somewhere safe, much less somewhere to be seen, fingered, acknowledged, even in a single breath)
The biscuit tin salvaged from your grandmother’s kitchen is far more Old South than Old Hollywood
Yet the pictures inside feel just as contrived as Belshazzar’s Babylon,
(but not the one in the yellowing family Bible where your mother recorded our ill-fated marriage)
Instead, the one in your so-called favorite film, testament to a feigned taste meant to set you apart
(Griffith’s Intolerance, how could I ever forget the way you pretended I was your own Mountain Girl?)
But I could never fully meet Constance’s gaze,
just like you could never quite capture my eye’s luminescence,
even in a fleeting moment when I looked at you-- searched for you, longed for you--
through your lens.
After/Thought Literary 