M. Suzanne Terry

(Originally written during the 40 Days of Poetry and featured on the Story Sessions blog)

[Possible trigger alert: inexplicit rape theme]

I

It begins…

And it is summer sunrise
A new day with dew-kissed air
And the juicy promise of the first peach of the season.
When the weather is warm, not hot
Breezy, not gusty.

There is heat,
And there is sunshine.

The gaze holds…

And it is rain –
The lovely kind that’s cool, not cold
Or warm, not clammy.
And you have no place to be but dancing in the puddle,
Curls plastered to your face
In a way that’s cute, not messy
Quirky, not weird.

There is laughter,
And there is thunder.

You go out…

And he orders your coffee before you arrive
Because he knows how you like it –
Strong, but smooth,
Sweet, but not fluffy,
Hot, not cold.
And you know that you’re a song he hears –
His favorite one
That he plays over and over.

There is melody,
And there is harmony.

II

He calls one day…

And he is sad, not happy
Worried, not carefree.
And he says, “I just got raped by that test.”
And the words are brown and rotting fruit,
Thrown to the ground by a careless wind.

You want to listen,
But you’re baffled and speechless
On the outside

On the inside, however,
You’re hissing…

No.
No, you did not.

No, you weren’t invaded
To your depths
To your soul

Despite your pleas
Despite your no
Despite your fists
And elbows
And knees.

Despite throwing everything you could think to throw
But still being marked
Helpless, not powerful
And weak, not strong.

You failed because you failed.

Not because something was inflicted upon you that you
Did not deserve
Did not ask for
Could not have foreseen or prevented

III

Or maybe the hiss slips out
Makes its way
Across the line of your lips
Across the line between you
Receiver to ear
Without a face to keep it company.

And it’s his turn to be baffled
And he says, “Where the fuck did that come from?”

And you know he’s hurt, not angry
And confused, not insensitive
(not intentionally, anyway)

YOU KNOW.

But you can’t hear what you know right now over the blaring trumpet solo the patriarchy is playing in your head.

All you can do is spit out…

It comes from
Be a good girl
And mind your manners
And nice girls don’t say things like that
And ladies don’t wear things like that

It comes from
You’re such a goody-goody
You’re such a slut
You’re such a tease
And how talented you must be to be all three.

It comes from
I know what’s best for you
You don’t know what you want
You know you want it
You knew what you were doing when you
Said that
Did that
Were that.

It comes from all the lies that you have ever been told
That you are second in command
Yet responsible for all
And utterly powerless to do anything
Except watch it all fall on top of you.

And no one will help you
Because we all think the whole mess is just one big joke.

IV

So it ends…

And it doesn’t occur to either of you
That there is a response that exists
Between baffled and furious
A way that reaches
Beyond livid and bewildered
Because in that moment, there isn’t.
Because when something fragile shatters
The instinct is
To stand very still
Or to sweep it all away.

No one thinks
To walk barefoot through it.

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The stage is ready.

The wobbly chair has been replaced.
The burned-out bulb has been changed.
Everything is set.

The audience is humming with social niceties and anticipation.
The announcer quiets them –
“And now – what you’ve all been waiting for – introducing….Brave!”

The curtains roll back, and the stage is empty.

The audience laughs.
“That’s clever,” they say.
“Brave wants us to think she has stage fright.”

They think it is all part of the act.

The laughter turns nervous as minutes pass and nothing changes.

Where is she?
The one who was up for anything
Who would try on any hat

Who was the first to step up to the mic
To step into the spotlight
To step out on the dance floor

Whose costume was see-through
In the right light
Who found that thrilling instead of terrifying

Who would have left the stage bare
So that she could choose her own entrance
And not leave it up to the curtain.

The joke of the faux-shy star would have been merely an afterthought.

Where is she?

She’s in her dressing room, throwing up.

She’s not sure if she’s sick from worrying whether she toned it down enough,
Or sick from what it says about the person she’s become that she toned it down at all.

This was my response to the prompt “Show me your brave” during tonight’s Story Sessions write-in. Show us your brave.  Join us.

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