I wish you were writing this poem
about those two days you hid in the woods,
partially scalped, your legs broken, your two kids
with you, hiding from the man who promised
to kill you when he came home.
I wish you were writing this poem
about the places you go in your mind
when the men mount you and start
their furious pumping.
I wish you were writing this poem
about the day you knew for sure
that you were not beautiful.
I wish you were writing this poem
about the look on your child’s face
the moment you slapped her
for calling you Bitch. And another
poem about the moment after.
I wish you were writing this poem
to the woman who slept with your husband,
asking her everything you know
you will never understand.
I wish you were writing this poem
about the way the light hit the empty room
just after you packed all your things to leave,
and how in that light for a moment
you thought you could stay,
loving in that moment the room, the potential,
and still you knew you would go.
It would not comfort you, this poem
that you are not writing, would not make
one thing better. Would not fix, not heal,
not redeem nor transform.
But something would happen,
something unnamable and mysterious—
and from that broken, torn,
shredded place, you might create,
surprising yourself, a little more space.