Forgetting Poem
“If you had to choose between remembering everything or nothing at all, which would you pick?”
Something happened, because a man
you cared about came into your house
at night, or because in the stories
you read, men were gracious and kind,
had a woman’s best interests at heart.
If you could forget all the things
you’ve done… the deck on the ferry
at Dover when the dawn light flamed
the chalk: green uniforms waiting
for bribes on the other side: a motorboat on
the brown Usumacinta River: the sickening
pitch of the boat as it rounded Ramsey Island:
brown seals plunging in foam: and the whale
glistening, suspended in its lurch
from the water. How happy you were
with your cousins at Deia: small hands
clasping the edge of your sweater, pinching
the cotton of your skirt: when the hardest
decision of the day was the angle
of a chair: how far to stretch
into sun
or shadow.
A woman flew out to meet her rapist, a man
from another country, absent for years.
How liberating, she said, to forgive
and forget. But what if your rapist is not
a handsome man in a collarless shirt, not
close to tears or poised to make it
up as best he can? What if mercy isn’t asked for
and cannot be given? A bell swung,
never pealing: in fairy tales, the princess
breathes in the blue rose, and forgets
it all: the voyage by sea: the storm: not even
her name: not the boy: a clambering spider
on the arm of a giant: only the rose, and
a lover she won’t remember is washed up
on a beach somewhere. By the same ocean but
a continent away, you dusted the boardwalks
with the soles of your feet: dipped
a hand in the warm, brown mouth
of the lily ponds: took off
your clothes for the cold, stark slip
to saltwater: or the white porcelain of a bathtub,
where your body lay: the length of the white
tiled room: a window cracked on a blue rectangle
of sky: powdered vanilla that you carried
on your skin as you travelled: blackberry jam
on your tongue for summers holidays
in England
on a small,
square lawn.
You didn’t know when you began what
happiness was, so you missed it when
it appeared. Now you are talking about
some kind of freedom. Because you’re afraid,
at your worst, you’re still blundering
with the key to a door: a man beside
you, perhaps not yet knowing what
he is about to do: a starling flew up
from the garden’s end, its wings rustling
like newspaper among the brambles.
Sorry, it said. I am so very
sorry
§
Poem for Emily Doe²
The next thing
she remembers, she is on a gurney
in a hallway. She has dried blood
and bandages on the backs
of her hands and elbow. She thinks,
maybe I have fallen. She is very
calm. She signs
the papers. Three nurses
prise flora and fauna
from her hair. Pine needles scratch
the back of her neck. She
shuffles from room to room
with a blanket wrapped
around, needles trailing
behind: she leaves a little pile
in every room she sits in
² “‘Poem for Emily Doe”’ is a found poem, which draws on testimony in the People of the State of California v. Brock Allen Turner (2015).
§
Letter from Georgia O’Keeffe
You opened the lens—and I did as I was told—
sat long and bare for the stretch of a four minute
exposure. A stormy night on Lake George—and later
you wrote—All is right between us for you gave me
your virginity. You offered the very center. And you hung
me in pieces on his gallery wall. You are—I suspect
—always photographing yourself. Where I saw
a tree with a cut limb—in pain but lovely
and live—you cropped a dying chestnut
crying with a man’s soul. When I knew the hot
moon and its reflection—white and mingling
on the waves—you mapped a line between land
and sky—and the moon watching
passive. Every part of me you saw in fragments. Bits
of universality in a woman’s body. Neck. Torso.
Breasts. People often say funny things about
my hands. How admired they have been
when painting—smeared as they are—but preferable
to the white, useless hands men know
so well. You had me boxed—until
my leaving—when you accused me—for
I went on—no longer a pet or creature—not your
Georgia O’ Keeffe. I walked out naked
onto the long sigh of the land under
a darkening sky. As good a place as any—
I told you—to let your bones bleach.