LOVE RECRUDESCENT

since the violation

my nightmares have all

included the threat

or the reality

of immobility

and I am there,

body pooling around me,

held down, useless.

wake: now I am here,

next to a plenitude

of gentleness,

unafraid. the humidity

of shared breath,

the safety of control:

call me a jar

of consent.

you draw nazca lines

at the entrance

to a lush forest 

shaped like hummingbird,

or shifting coccoon—you

remove the ruddy

pebbled blush

to reveal what’s under.

a religious act.

give those lines

a purpose. give them

clarity without hesitation.

we should try,

you said,

everything, just to see

what you like best.

Goretti Girls get their man, Oct. 2003

Every day, for weeks, we’d seen

pink heritable flesh, a shock

of sickly invertebrate underbelly extended,

engorged. The fat meat turned uglier

and redder by the second, fevered, swelling—

an unwanted inheritance come too early,

a sight we neither asked for nor wanted,

not yet. Me and the other girls trooped down

from St. Maria Goretti, down in South Philly,

wearing modest knee-length plaid

and starchy white shirts, suspicious and tense.

We kept together on the walk home from school,

schools of nervous trout avoiding

an ugly red worm—bait—from a crooked hook.

Yesterday, though, sick of the taunt, the show

and the fear, we became fearless. We moved

together when we spotted him—not away,

but closer. Kell dropped her bag like it was full

of heavy sea-stones and sped toward him,

little legs pumping under ugly grey-patterned

war skirt, to deliver the first blow, a firm kick.

Red algae bloomed where her foot landed.

The nasty worm shrank and receded to useless

pulpy flaccidity, like an empty sock. Me and the girls

kept kicking, 'cause we really wanted him to know

how much we never wanted to see what he offered.

Fish move together since they know 

that to present a united front is wise. It’s better

for the whole group. It’s easier to defend
when there’s lots of you. It’s easier to attack, too. 

Goretti Girls v 2

Every day, for weeks, we’d seen

pink heritable flesh revealed, a shock

of sickly invertebrate underbelly extended,

engorged. The fat meat turned uglier

and redder by the second, fevered, swelling—

an unwanted inheritance come too early,

a sight we neither asked for nor wanted,

not yet. Me and the other girls trooped down

from St. Maria Goretti, down in South Philly,

wearing modest knee-length plaid

and starchy white shirts, suspicious and tense.

We kept together on the walk home from school,

schools of nervous trout avoiding

an ugly red worm—bait—from a crooked hook.

Yesterday, though, sick of the taunt, the show

and the fear, we became fearless. We moved

together when we spotted him—not away,

but closer. Kell dropped her bag like it was full

of heavy sea-stones and sped toward him,

little legs pumping under ugly grey-patterned

war skirt, to deliver the first blow, a firm kick.

Red algae bloomed where her foot landed.

The nasty worm shrank and receded to useless

pulpy flaccidity, like an empty sock. 
Me and the girls kept kicking.

Fish move together since they know 

that to present a united front is wise. It’s better

for the whole group. It’s easier to defend
when there’s lots of you. It’s easier to attack, too.