Sheleen McElhinney
How many times have we been here, closing the door
against the outside as if we are prey, as if we are worthy
game, a prized head to hang on a wall, glass eyes
reflecting the hunter’s face? It’s not your fault.
Just last week a woman was murdered in a park nearby.
She was going for a run. She was running before running
meant not dying. It’s not your fault. Once, you were crouched
behind a bush til dark, shook from the guts out, while a man
slapped a pipe in his open palm, softly singing Here, kitty kitty
over the crunch of his boots. When you were 13,
the man working on your house was caught peering into
the window of your second floor bedroom as you toweled
yourself dry and looked for all of your vanishing underwear.
Your brother, when he was still alive, still here to protect
you, sat on the roof with a shotgun waiting
for that same man to come back around because brothers know
what men are capable of. Once, you accepted a gift in exchange
for rape. Once, a man who offered you a ride home drove you
to his house instead. Once, you left your drink unattended, woke up
in the backseat of a car full of sleeping girls and you could only save
yourself. You have seen your own funeral so many times. You have
clutched your own throat over and over with your own hands just to protect it
from someone else’s. Sweetheart, the man at the front door—
he is just delivering a package, he is just conducting a survey,
he is just here to check the meter. You know so many good men.
Featured at The Red Wheelbarrow on 27 October 2022