Poetry, Bre D'Alessio South
You know that office space between Congress Street and First? Yes, the building that evokes a
certain Spanish Renaissance style and overlooks Colorado River. A co-worker in that room up
there, yes the one with the lights still on, he once placed his hand on my thigh during a meeting
while five suits squawked around a large table. Yes, this was back when you physically went
into an office five days a week and no, it was under the table. He was clever not smart. But he
was a team player and the CEO loved his Harvard resume, but tell me, who goes to Harvard to
major in sociology? And mind you he asked me something while his sweaty palm gripped my
linen skin, but I couldn’t see his face because my heart was in my eyeballs as I imagined what it
would feel like to rip his fingers with the utmost precision one by one as they detangled from
his wrist. Flicking each swollen finger to the floor in slow motion. And yes before you ask, I
reported it, but we were a tech start-up, so the best we can do is a suggestion card filed under
a recruiter. She nodded and frowned and said the things she was trained to say as I vomited a
scenario that has been regurgitated for decades within dimly lit cubicles like that one up there
with thighs that linger too close and men who clamp their hands around your throat while
asking you with full sincerity, do you mind if I give you some feedback? Yes you guessed it,
nothing happened to him. But she did offer me a room without glass windows to write it all
down.
Bre D'Alessio South is a writer living in Massachusetts. Her work has been featured in the Texas Review and Maudlin House.