the same conversation
I thought having the same conversation over and again was supposed to make the subject easier to stomachYet I still sit, wringing useless hands idly while I listen to stories drip like fresh blood falling from shaking lips
pool at the base of my attention and drown me
Staring at the tops of my shoes wishing to them silently that I didn't have to hear this ever again
But until boys learn to keep hands to themselves and act like they're supposed to
I'll continue doing what I'm supposed to
Listen, as a friend
Swallowing back bitter bile creeping up the channel of my throat in choked acidic screams I can't utter
Straining my eyes to blink back tears I don't feel I have any right to shed
And wring my useless hands
Wishing to the tops of my shoes that this will never need to be brought to my attention again
fifteen years after that first conversation and still just that one word can make me feel instantly ill
disgusted and embarrassed to share something as unchosen as my gender
I can clearly recall a semi-circular panel of woman barely at the cusp of their own maturity talking about it
Like going around the room verbally checking boxes on some census regarding inappropriate behavior
Have you suffered as well?
Yes
Was your sanctity taken from you in a terrifying moment of undesired attention?
Yes
Have the hands of some male cast shadows over your dreams and painted the inside of your mind with insecurity and paranoia?
Yes
I once heard a young woman utter the phrase "join the club" to another
They both smiled, uneasily, and chuckled, even more uneasily
As I sat there with consternating hands following that all-too familiar path across palms sweaty
Staring at the tops of a different pair of shoes sharing the same indifference as all the others to my wish that this might be the last time
Just please make this the last time
My ears are graced with the sound of a friend's voice faltering through the facts of the evening
The last time the last bit of my patience falls out from between fingertips gripped around each other
Wishing they could coil around the throats of the interlopers that trespass on the dreams of women
The last time a friend who needs nothing more than to confess every injury suffered
can't even look me in the eyes because somehow
In some way
They may resemble the piercing gaze of their assailant whose actions have warped their very definition of what it means to be male
And I couldn't ever blame them for hating men
We only keep making it easier
Each time one of us decides not to keep his hands to himself
And has to take from a woman what was never meant for him
And you can save your fucking excuses
No amount of words could equate to an answer of why
No bounds of conversation could sum up to a reason
No collection of sentences could ever excuse these actions and allow anyone to forgive those who would stalk women as prey
And in my fury I still do nothing more than just sit here
Wringing hands over the keyboard constructing this poem
Staring down at the tops of yet another indifferent pair of shoes
Not listening to my plea
thinking of a day that I might sit with my own daughter having this same talk
While she can't even raise her face to meet daddy's eyes because some man's dirty fingernails dragged them down to her feet
Wringing her hands
and wishing to the tops of her shoes that this conversation never needed to happen
Poetry by David W Durney
Read 536 times
Written on 2007-12-26 at 20:53
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