By Michelle M. Tokarczyk
Where we listen.
Each day is a hand opening possibilities.
Each story is a nugget of success, or
a remnant of lost days and broken bonds.
Reminding us the straight and narrow
is wide enough to support us.
Hold us firm against the cravings
that still salivate in our mouths.
Where we listen.
Until a woman’s voice cracks
the way that truth cracks secrets and lies
and all the walls that still, we build.
“_____ ____ ____ raped me.”
We listen. Picture
the man holding more
power than we can picture. Look
at the woman I do not know but know
she is trying to recover. Staring
at the space here her words hang. Powerless.
And we, women, listen, crossing our arms
across our chests as if we’re afraid
they’ll crack open and our own hearts
will spill out.
We will listen, but not speak.
We are powerless. We can do nothing.
Not now.
Not yet.
We will never forget.
Michelle M. Tokarczyk has published two books of poetry Bronx Migrations and The House I’m Running From; as well as work in numerous journals and anthologies including the minnesota review, The Literary Review, Slant and For a Living: The Poetry of Work. A professor of English at Goucher College, she divides her time between Baltimore and New York City, and spends as much time as possible in resistance work.
Image: Tereus Severing Philomela’s Tongue, Virgil Solis 1562
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