Best Poems - Dreams

Best Poems – ASSAULTS

“A secret threat clouds my life

          Advances
          Unwelcomed
          Uninvited 

The once friendly neighbor
Seeks my attention

          Breaking boundaries
          Breaking decades of trust
          Breaking the peace of being alone in my home

While I write on my computer
Hair raises on my neck
Sexual undertow approaches
My dogs begin their welcome prance
As ‘their old friend’ reaches my porch
Unaware of the potential harm to me

          Light from my windows now becomes
          A beacon for the stalker
          Curtains closed during the day
          Lights off during the evening 

Shut in
My castle needs a moat with piranhas
In this horror movie set”

“at last we killed the roaches.
mama and me, she sprayed,
i swept the ceiling and they fell
dying onto our shoulders, in our hair
covering us with red, the tribe was broken,
the cooking pots were ours again
and we were glad, such cleanliness was grace
when i was twelve. only for a few nights,
and then not much, my dreams were blood
my hands were blades and it was murder murder
all over the place.” 

“What was Inez supposed to do for
the man who declared war on her body
the man who carved a combat zone between her breasts 
Was she supposed to lick crabs from his hairy ass
kiss every pimple on his butt
blow hot breath on his big toe
draw back the corners of her vagina and 
hee haw like a Calif. burro

This being wartime for Inez
she stood facing the knife
the insults and 
her own smell drying on the penis of 
the man who raped her

She stood with a rifle in her hand
doing what a defense department will do in times of war
And when the man started grunting and panting and wobbling
forward like a giant hog
She pumped lead into his three hundred pounds of shaking flesh
Sent it flying to the virgin of Guadalupe
then celebrated day of the dead rapist punk
and just what the fuck else was she supposed to do?

And what was Joanne supposed to do for
the man who declared war on her life
Was she supposed to tongue his encrusted toilet stool lips
suck the numbers off of his tin badge
choke on his clap trap balls
squeeze on his nub of rotten maggots and
sing god bless america thank you for fucking my life away

This being wartime for Joanne
she did what a defense department will do in times of war
and when the piss drinking shit sniffing guard said
I’m gonna make you wish you were dead black bitch come here
Joanne came down with an ice pick in
the swat freak mother fucker’s chest
yes in the fat neck of the racist policeman
Joanne did the dance of the ice picks and once again
from coast to coast
house to house
we celebrated day of the dead rapist punk
and just what the fuck else were we supposed to do?”

Martín Espada, photo by B.A. Van Sise (Children of Grass: A Portrait of American Poetry)

When the Leather is a Whip – Martín Espada

“At night,
with my wife
sitting on the bed,
I turn from her
to unbuckle 
my belt
so she won’t see
her father 
unbuckling 
his belt.”

Laughter – Nikki Giovanni

(for Dr. Ford)

“and when she dies
I wish she could
hurry back
to say ‘Yes’
I hear the laughter
I hear kavanaugh’s
   laughter
I hear donald trump’s
   laughter
I hear the white women in
the crowd’s
   laughter
I hear the laughter
I hear it now
as I transition
I am walking
on their laughter
at me
as The Arms of the Greatest
embrace me
and hums a sweet song
as He has embraced
my sisters
as they too
heard 
the laughter.”

Tilt-A-Wheel – Nancy Miller Gomez

“It was a hot day in Paola, Kansas.
             The rides were banging around empty

as we moved through the carnival music and catcalls.
             At the Tilt-A-Whirl we were the only ones.

My big sister chose our carriage carefully,
             walking a full circle until she stopped.

The ride operator didn’t take his eyes off her
             long dark hair and amber eyes, ringed

like the golden interior of a newly felled pine.
             She didn’t seem to notice him lingering

as he checked the lap bar and my sister asked
             in her sweetest, most innocent—or maybe

not-so-innocent—voice, Can we have a long ride please,
             mister? When he sat back down

at the joystick, he made a show
             of lighting his smoke and the cage

of his face settled into a smile
             I would one day learn to recognize.

Here was a man who knew
             his life would never get better,

and those dizzying red teacups began to spin
             my sister and me into woozy amusement.

We forgot the man, the heat, our thighs
             sticking to the vinyl seats, our bodies glued

together in a centrifugal blur of happiness
             beneath a red metal canopy

as we picked up speed and started to laugh,
             our heads thrown back, mouths open,

the fabric of my sister’s shirt clinging
             to the swinging globes of her breasts

as we went faster, and faster,
             though by then we had begun to scream, Stop!

Please stop! Until our voices grew hoarse
             beneath the clattering of the pivots and dips,

the air filling with diesel and cigarettes, and the man
             at the control stick, waiting for us

to spin toward him again, and each time he cocked his hand as
             if sighting prey down the barrel of a gun.”

“‘Come on!’ I snapped,
inpatient for the shower water
to warm. While I waited,
I checked my reflection in
the bathroom mirror.
That big-breasted girl
was a stranger.
I heard how my shirts hugged me,
how I jiggled when I walked,
how boys looked at me
like I was an ice-cream cone
with two scoops.
I climbed into the tub,
lathered quickly,
and stood beneath
the showerhead
eyes closed, enjoying
the feel of wet needles 
pelting me. Then I froze.
‘Who’s there?’ I asked,
sure I’d heard the door open.
I looked through the steam, 
and made out a shadow.
‘Get out!’ I shouted,
covering my beasts.
‘GET. OUT!’
The shadow quickly retreated.
It was Clark, of course.
I switched off the water,
reached through the curtain
and fumbled for a towel.
Maybe Mom catching Clark
gawking at me
while I take a shower
is what it’s going to take.
Maybe then she’ll leave him.”

“That night,
after Mom passed out drunk,
it happened.
I woke from a deep sleep
to find my legs parted
and Clark’s tongue exploring
where no tongue
had ever been,
I tried to kick and wrestle,
but he had me muscled into place.
He kept licking and nibbling me,
and I screamed. 

     God, close your eyes.
     I don’t want you
     seeing me like this.

Clark came up for air
long enough to laugh.
‘Scream all you want,’ he said.
‘Ain’t nothing gonna wake
your mama.’
Just to be sure,
he clamped his hand
over my mouth,
and that’s when the tears came,
and I let them.
When he was good and done,
he got up, slung his robe
over his shoulder, and
sauntered from the room.
I gathered my strength and rose,
pushed all my furniture
up against the door,
and swore that bastard
would never 
touch me again.”

“We live in Los Angeles, California.
We have a front yard and a backyard.
My favorite things are cartwheels, salted plums,
and playing catch with my dad.  I squeeze the grass
and dirt between my fingers. Eat my tongue 
white. He launches every ball into orbit.
Every ball drops like an anvil, heavy
and straight into my hands. I am afraid
of riots and falling and the dark.
The sunset of flames ringing our block,
groceries and Asian-owned storefronts.  No one
to catch me. Midnight walks from his room to mine.
I believe in the devil.
I have a sister and a brother
and a strong headlock. We have a dog named
Spunky, fawn and black. We have an olive 
tree.  A black walnut tree. A fig tree.
We lie in the grass and wonder who writes 
in the sky. I lie in the grass and imagine
my name, a cloud drifting. Saturday
dance parties. Everyone drunk on pink
panties, screw drivers, and Canadian Club.
Dominoes and spades. Al Green and Mack 10.
Sometimes Mama dances with the dog.
Sometimes my dad dances with me. I am
careful not to touch. He is careful
to smile with his whole face.”

“Climbing the stairway gray with urban midnight,
Cheerful, venial, ruminating pleasure,
Darkness takes me, an arm around my throat and
                                    Give me your wallet.

Fearing cowardice more than other terrors,
Angry I wrestle with my unseen partner,
Caught in a ritual not of our own making,
                                     panting like spaniels.

Bold with adrenaline, mindless, shaking,
God damn it, no! I rasp at him behind me,
Wrenching the leather wallet from his grasp. It
                                     breaks like a wishbone,

So that departing (routed by my shouting,
Not by my strength or inadvertent courage)
Half the papers lending me a name are
                                      gone with him nameless.

Only now turning, I see a tall boy running,
Fifteen, sixteen, dressed thinly for the weather.
Reaching the streetlight he turns a brown face briefly
                                      phrased like a question.

I like a questioner watch him turn the corner
Taking the answer with him, or his half of it.
Loneliness, not a sensible emotion,
                                      breathes hard on the stairway.

Walking homeward I fraternize with shadows,
Zig-zagging with them where they flee the streetlights,
Asking for trouble, asking for the message
                                      trouble had sent me.

All fall down has been scribbled on the street in
Garbage and excrement: so much for the vision
Others taunt me with, my untimely humor,
                                      so much for cheerfulness.

Next time don’t wrangle, give the boy the money,
Call across chasms what the world you know is.
Luckless and lied to, how can a child master
                                      human decorum?

Next time a switchblade, somewhere he is thinking,
I should have killed him and took the lousy wallet.
Reading my cards he feels a surge of anger
                                       blind as my shame.

Error from Babel mutters in the places,
Cities apart, where now we word our failures:
Hatred and guilt have left us without language
                                       that might have led to discourse.”

“every 3 minutes a woman is beaten
every five minutes a
woman is raped/every ten minutes
a lil girl is molested
yet i rode the subway today
i sat next to an old man who
may have beaten his old wife
3 minutes ago or 3 days/30 years ago
he might have sodomized his
daughter but i sat there
cuz the men on the train
might beat some young women
later in the day or tomorrow
i might not shut my door fast
enuf push hard enuf
every 3 minutes it happens
some woman’s innocence
rushes to her cheeks/pours from her mouth
like the betsy wetsy dolls have been torn
apart/their mouths
menses red & split/every
three minutes a shoulder
is jammed through plaster and the oven door/
chairs push thru the rib cage/hot water or
boiling sperm decorate her body
i rode the subway today
& bought a paper from a
man who might
have held his old lady onto
a hot pressing iron/i don’t know
maybe he catches lil girls in the
parks & rips open their behinds
with steel rods/i can’t decide
what he might have done i only
know every 3 minutes
every 5 minutes every 10 minutes/so
i bought the paper
looking for the announcement
the discovery/of the dismembered
woman’s body/the
victims have not all been
identified/today they are
naked and dead/refuse to
testify/one girl out of 10’s not
coherent/i took the coffee
& spit it up/i found an
announcement/not the woman’s
bloated body in the river/floating
not the child bleeding in the
59th street corridor/not the baby
broken on the floor/
   ‘there is some concern
   that alleged battered women
   might start to murder their
   husbands and lovers with no
   immediate cause’
i spit up i vomit i am screaming
we all have immediate cause
every 3 minutes
every 5 minutes
every 10 minutes
every day
women’s bodies are found
in alleys & bedrooms/at the top of the stairs
before i ride the subway/buy a paper/drink
coffee/i must know/
have you hurt a woman today
did you beat a woman today
throw a child across a room
   are the little girl’s pants
   in yr pocket
did you hurt a woman today

i have to ask these obscene questions
the authorities require me to
establish
immediate cause

every three minutes
every five minutes
every ten minutes
every day”

“In a scary movie,
A severed hand crept a few inches,
Stopped, index finger in air,
And turned crab-like toward the audience.
That’s when I got up from my velvety chair
In the matinee and moved two rows 
Back, then three more when I peeked 
Between my fingers and saw a hand
moving toward us kids. I closed my eyes
When a girl—no, me!—screamed
As the organ moaned, a prelude
To the appearance of more severed parts?
I said nothing when I opened my eyes
And saw the hand on my knee.
I blinked.  How did it crawl
From the screen and settle with a pinch
On my jeans? I looked up—a bald usher
next to me, a finger in his mouth.
I jumped from that chair and hurried,
Shirttail out, for the lobby door.

Saturday, sometime in the early sixties,
Fear only cost a grubby dime.”

“You thought she was asleep.  You were afraid
To hear what she’d call you
If you said it out loud as a parting shot at the door,
So you took the sneaky way out
And used her own lipstick against her, against the mirror
Where you felt certain she’d look no later than dawn,
But would find, instead of herself
In there again behind glass, your blunt reflection,
Your last word on the subject. 

But I’m here to tell you she was wide-awake.
Behind her eyelids she followed every move
Of yours, the jingle of small change
When you finally found your pants, the smallest squeak
Of your run-down heels in the bathroom,
The soft click of the latch.

She let out the breath she’d been holding and keeping
To herself, took a quick shower, considered
The small end of your vocabulary,
And taxied home. She didn’t bother
Erasing your word, but passed it on
As a kind of tip to the maid, who wouldn’t clean up
After you either, but left it to the imagination
Of another transient facing a cold morning,
Thinking of you and passing the word along.”