It's just poetry, it won't bite

23 Blocks


09.20.12 Posted in words to linger on by

Kate Hammerich’s most recent poem to appear here was stitches (August 2012).

23 Blocks
By Kate Hammerich

the laughing, the ragging, the bragging,
someone pausing to swig from a beer, the bottle is the color
of the floor, it leaves rings in the dust from where it is picked up,
passed around like I wish they would pass me around, the sex
I could handle, but not this three-pronged assault, not orchestrated
like in the dirty movies one of my ex-boyfriends liked to watch, just
animal noises, my hair jerked backwards, the ripping tears and after-burn,
the soft noise of my nails on the floor, scrabbling like animals

there is a woman in the corner of the room, she looks like me, but softer,
her face in her hands, she is screaming desperately, barely pausing for breath,
loud as I am silent, but as she rocks, naked, I know I am the only one who can see her.
I want to touch her hand, I want to turn away, my stomach rebelling at her
weakness, but she is easier to watch than the camera screwed hastily to a tripod,
my heart wants to go soft for her, but I have no heart. I have no body, no breath, no part
in this desecration. my mind is going, going, gone. maybe I am already dead

still I wake in the still pre-dawn light. there is a young man, his soft brown hair falls
over his eyes, he is touching my cheek, eyes wide. I know he was drunk, but now, in the suddenness
of me, like stumbling over a dead body, he is brutally sober. the sidewalk digs into my bare ribs and he
glances away, jerking off his t-shirt and shoving it blindly into my hands. it hangs low over my hips.
my jeans have no button, but they are dragged on and the blood is already soaking softly through,
petals blossoming over blue. the t-shirt hangs ragged to mid-thigh and I thoughtfully say, “I’m going
to burn this when I get home.” he nods, gulps, whispers, “Can I … ” “Help?” the laugh is a bitter croak.
“I am going home now. I know the way.” I stub my bare toe getting up, lurch, grab for balance,
for my cloak of dignity.

I walk the 23 blocks, my knee throbbing like a bad tooth, my phone is ringing and when I answer there is
a cacophony of sound and laughter. My cousin’s baby was born.
“Happy Birthday,” I say, cutting my jeans away with scissors.
“Happy Birthday.”






2 Responses to “23 Blocks”

  1. This is gripping! You had my heart in your hands and your squeeze has left me with some horrific memories of years passed. Haunting!

  2. Sharon Poch says:

    Kate,
    Never has my soul been so wrenched by a poem. We tend to turn away from human brutality but you have forced us to face it, to recognize it’s existence. And that we can survive even the most horrific acts of violence. Thank you for your courage in sharing . . .
    Sharon

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