Two Poems by Erin Vaughn
Birthday
Yesterday at school,
a boy touched himself in front of you
his eyes unfocused
as if he was there and not there.
He looked right through you
and then your body was not your own.
Today you turned eleven
and shrieked through a throng of friends
who threw their arms around you
as you opened all your presents.
I wanted to cry because
I don’t know how to tell you
that this will happen again: men
will see you and not see you
over and over
and it takes a lot of light
to blow out all the candles
and still burn.
Things to Bring to the Protest
Bring your phone, locked.
Granola bar. ID.
A vial of your mother’s tears
and the sharp grey stone of your rage.
Bring all the joy you can find. Ball it up
in your hands like a fist.
Gather the shreds of your compassion
from where they’ve scattered about the house–
between the pages of books,
pots on the stove–and stuff your pockets.
Bring bandages and balm,
the small sleeping sounds of your brother’s
new baby, the wounded
song in your heart and the world it has lost.
These, together, are heavy.
Do not worry, beloved;
many hands lift here.
Erin Vaughn (she/her) is a poet and educator who writes in order to understand what it means to live freely—whether in a body, a family, or a country. She lives in Maryland with her husband, young daughter, and two dogs. Her poetry has been previously published in The Basilisk Tree.
Photo credit: Jenni Konrad via a Creative Commons license
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