A Poem for Virginia


This is not a guerilla warfare tactic.

1998.  A lady with
black rimmed glasses
told me to
write it all down
let it all go.

and so I
stationed three soldiers
underneath my skirt

dressed them up
in shiny new black boots
bare torsos.
& then i took to it
like a girl takes
to her first love.

I still remember the first sign:  blood.



1.  Accept your distress.  Roll with the tides.  Do not try to be brave.  Take time to cry.

there were no bees that summer.  only crocuses & antonyms.  1997.  you were 17 and just beginning to learn how to frostbite straight through tendon.  we drove the galaxy like bandits.  slung glitter into and out of curves.  you locked your elbows.  avoided catastrophe with two sharp turns.  we star quaked down old ky. 15 like two self-colored heathens--dizzy & purple hued.  like pioneers of the dream, regenerating in our leather jackets.  we deep swigged frothy buds.  took to tangles.  passed light blue helpings from front seat to back like modern day mothers with spoonfuls of lower tab clanking against oatmeal bowls.

we were two girls with holsters, but no gun.



2.  Don't label yourself abnormal.  You are having normal reactions to an abnormal event.

11:03.  you pulled off gravel.  into dirt.  murmured something about leg cramps, eight hours of induced silence, chronic back pain & splitting in two.  he was there with a light.  always there with a light & shaky hands.  i saw flame tremble.  heard credit card scrape against skin.  a chop.  moonlight illuminated four shoulders.  silence.

you do not remember exactly when i disappeared.



3.  Do not resist recurring thoughts about the incident.  Share your distress.  Do not protect with silence.

sweat.  knees.  light--there was no light.  rustle in the background indicated breeze.  log trucks rumbled one--maybe two miles away.  wind blew sound in.  repeated: try not to, try not to breathe.  try not to mumble. remember, remember it's only a matter of time.  face in gravel.  do not blink.  do not open eyes.  do not blnk. do not move don't stretch legs don't bite.  wait.  wait for him to finish.  wait.  two bodies. breath inside neck. mosquito curled its wings in blood.  eyes closed.  kept repeating.  remember.  remember.  it's only a matter of time.  think of something beautiful.  mosquito.  mosquito curled its wings in blood.  mosquito.

he never occupied my body.



4.  Measure your thoughts.  Avoid frantic activity.

he was beautiful.
it was kinky romantic.
the way he didn't stop.
the way he pummeled my thighs.
the way he tried to decipher my gurgles.
the way they erupted through his fingers.
thich geysers of spit & words & how he almost became violent. but didn't
press hard enough.  was two inches from collarbone.  left jawbone intact.  didn't draw blood.
the way he only induced blackness instead of bringing on the void.

i slept three days.



5.  Get rid of imagined guilt.

i still remember the first sign:  blood.
two legs splayed phenomenally around
vermilion toilet bowl
coupled with
one tiny broken mosquito wing
and i can not recall
what else.

you were there with swollen hands.  applied saline to my bottom lip.
wetted the scab with cool rags.  said it's okay.  said take to her memory
like a girl takes

to her first love.

rock her in your sleep
& then
repair the child.
     



This is not a guerilla warfare tactic.
1998.  A lady with black rimmed glasses
told me to write it all down
let her go
become a poem for Virginia

whose tiny hands never grew to

protest her demise.