You Watch Me Wishing I Were Twice as Good
Rage Hezekiah
You begged me to close my legs
tried to make me a lady
in my skirted youth, but I
was hanging from the monkey bars
by scraped-up knees, my skirt
a billowed sail. Tiny underwear
and belly exposed, cradled in the clamor
of self-amused laughter—
a joyous child. Even after the belt,
your thick, black palm, paddle
hairbrushes, that whittled
wooden cane, voice so loud
windowpanes were tambourines, still—
I am this way: vocal, unafraid.
In the airport security line, two
uniformed women pat-down my girlfriend,
her breasts bound tight to ease
button-down shirts onto her form. I'm still
not comfortable one says, and they
escort my partner to a backroom
for further inspection. I hear my own
detached yelling, anger emerging
from a bodily history of you do not
belong, I am the woman
in a public meltdown, surrounded by
anonymous passengers. This is bullshit.
Nearby my father stands like a column
with a single index finger pressed
against pursed lips, attempts
to ease a non-existent orchestra
into decrescendo. He folds his hands
at his waist, the same way he behaved
to avoid his father's belt or his mother's
backhand. I'm still a scene, tears streak
my cheeks; my father has already left
his body.