Sonoma Mountain Rape

Tombstones stand numb against this July wind,
but we creep on. I pull oak leaves from my hair,
unaware of where we're headed, or the fire
burning in his loins. We can see the whole valley: land
of tended vineyards, California live oak, lazy black birds.
He points among trees and tombs, and keeps sticking
his fingers in the loops of my jeans. He's talking
about yesterday, the Fourth, fireworks, using dirty words,
and I see a target on my chest. He marks
his territory as I am spread-eagled under grave trees.
I am silent, staring past his shoulder, counting rows
of marble headstones, noticing the Little League park
full of kids, their laughter like the surf at Doran Beach.
My fingers dig the cemetery soil, taking root.
I grow into myself with each thrust. He notes
my cloudy eyes, continues anyway, filling the air with empty speeches.

What You Don't Know:

My fall
my ascent
my fall again.
How I felt my mind expand so much I lost myself.
The innumerable screams,
some for pain,
some for anger,
some for fear,
some for desperation.
My desire dry.
I didn't leave the house for days.
How many times I was a child
refusing guidance.
How many letters I have not written,
how many letters I have
hidden away like incriminating evidence.
You don't know
I can't sleep
I can't remember who I am.
You don't know
This is the first time in many years
I have thought myself worthy.
I have to grow accustomed to not being afraid.

(New Untitled)

When you ask me what I remember,
don't ask about the other girl
who shared my name
and his attention.
Don't ask about mangos,
and why he talks of them
falling on my head,
or staying up all night,
waiting for the phone to ring.
When you ask me what I remember,
don't ask me
whether it was really love,
or if any of our friends approved.
Don't ask about promises
or tears
or how how foolish I was.
Instead, ask me
if I allowed myself to breathe
when he put his arms around me,
if he let me shift gears
while he was driving,
if he laced his fingers with mine
between our seats
and held my gaze as long as he could
without swerving off the road.
When you ask me what I remember,
ask about our secret trip to his grandfather's
cabin on the Russian River,
how we had to break in
and played poker in the twilight.
Ask about the music we traded,
Beethoven for Hendrix,
how we each admit,
nearly a decade later,
we cannot listen
for fear of it hurting too much.

10/12/04