Poem For The Survivor **trigger warning*

Miscommunication

(most rapes are perpetrated by people the victims know In a study done by Amnesty International, 26% of those in the UK believe if a woman acts flirtatiously, the rape is in part, or in whole, her fault)

He walked her home
after steak and cocktails,

and when she is
shoved in line sometimes,
or when a guy in the office
or a guy with a name tag
or a guy with a badge gives her

(or her tits)
a number

she still thinks of
bullhorns, His strong arm,
ubiquitous skin
a second lie
in the headlines

They ruled the thing
laryngitis,
a wrestling match

between friends,

consent

she did resist;
at least, she thinks she did,
contemplating a wilting white rose
poised for the trash can;

it was all louder than she thought

later He swore: “I’m not a carnivore!
How should I have known
she was the bait and switchblade
arbiter of swiftly
slamming doors?
This is not just a girl thing
and anyway, she never actually said no.”

He accused her
of broken no(se)
even as she spilled her drink
all over his alibi

her voice just made no cents
a wet dollar bill
in an ancient barter system

between friends

that night,
stacks of meat were sold
the choicest pieces of beef,
the steak in
a saturday night celebration

and she collected herself back from the aerial distance
past her limbs, past her name dark
as the space between street lamps,

and slipped by a street preacher
whose signage pointed to the skewed
gape of her buttons; He assigned
yellow tape to the plunge and
climb of her blouse and skirt: didn’t she know
the places beneath fabric were all her fault?

(just by their existence pleas(e) to strangers
spare parts with no
more continuity than a Picasso)

He said go home, honey,
go inside

you’ll be safer there