by ruiina
i. the neighbor is the same self as a woman—
self as matter, congealed, from slow-turning
doorknobs the echo, slightness of raised voices,
the knots in her small hands a croak &
the shoveling of carpet, swallowing her
whole.
self as the lady next house over—
self as submission; ask her for some sugar &
she asks her husband
(apprehension—timidity—superfine &
powdered)
concave voice creases in the corner of his eyes,
not unkind not at all just slight
and the doorknob spins and stops
[she gave her oldest pound away the stitching
on the bag cross-work of
(little stars—little sparks—)
somewhat resembling life]
self as the car—
self as yours to drive
take hours around waste a little gas
take it for a spin, even though your feet hurt a bit
[“hey, why’d you take my car?”] &
close the door soft enough so he can’t hear
your coughing in the garage.
ii. you want to be dorothy this halloween gasoline dripping out of orifices
acid pooling in slits of open wounds
pockets: kind words. bubble at the top.
[unreal, unreal]
feel grass dew on your skin: virginity again
no one can hurt you
where you have hurt yourself.
he can’t hurt the cords you have severed
twist the already-intertwining intestines
feel the nerves which you have numbed
from years and years of practice
silence the hairs on your arm &
the rattling of cracked bone when he barrels through
the hallway
close off blood-pulsing veins
so they don’t gush at the sight of him
click your heels 1,2,3 to go home, go home, go home
[unreal, unreal]
he has hurt you
where you cannot hurt yourself
iii. his first science experiment
butterflies bursting out of the skin / feel the
remnants
of his lips / on the sweatiness of your palm / wonder,
does he taste the salt? / do his eyes paralyze /
study
the slope of your shoulder? / harmony of your pulse
and the tone of your voice? / or does he set you
free? / feel butterflies beneath fingernails / ripping
off the dead weight / taking flight / does he like catching
butterflies? / put them in glass jars & on
little stands / rip them in half & piece them together /
to his liking
or do you run / turn into a centipede? / one hundred
legs / all stitched to you / from singed skin / sever
the burned parts / parts from the glass / to be free
again
a note from the artist--
In short, it’s about the abused—here, women whose bedroom doors have been slammed too often, whose numbness has been practiced to survive, and to send a message that they can still be free. Major inspiration from a fellow poet who’s also written about women in so many profound ways. She sparked this poem.