poetry

For the Women like You. {poetry}

 

He told me he needed to take a nap, and I thought, Oh shit.

It’s for women like you .

It’s for women like you.

It’s for women
It’s for women
It’s for
It’s for
it’s for, it’s…

She said,
He said,
You know,
a girl like you.

You know a woman like you,
I thought,
Found her way from California
to Brooklyn.

You had your hair cut pageboy.

You keep yourself streamlined,
the hair falls in front of your face,
behind thick glasses,
housing intelligent eyes,
And you don’t
brush it aside.

Let the hair fall down.

You make metal molds
of things like
Hummingbird skulls
and sparrow bones,
and seahorse spines.

Now I know.
Now I know.
Now I know why
you make them.

She said,
He told me,
A girl like you shouldn’t be hitchhiking.

There are all sorts of people
in this world.

She said to him,
Eyes strong,
Voice steady,
Gun to head,
she told me
she told me
He put a gun to her head;

She said to him,

I’m so glad you’re not one of them.

He gave her names in the
pickup truck.

Right after he
Showed her
he had a gun in the car,
so she didn’t try anything funny.

She’s a sparrow woman now.
Can’t imagine she was anything
But a fawn then.

And he needed a gun?

He gave her names,
and right before he tried
to ruin
both their lives,
she gave them back.

I’m so glad you’re not
One of them,
She said.

And your mother knows
(you’re not)
And your father knows
(you’re not)
And your wife knows
(you’re not)
And I,
She said,
I know you’re not.

She held his gaze.

She told me she had put on all
the layers of clothes
she could,
before he told her
to get
in the back
of the truck.

A jacket over a jacket over a jacket.

His chin-drool.

She held his gaze steady.

And after she gave him
all of the names,
He put the gun away.

He said he didn’t need a nap
any more.

She told me in her shop
in Brooklyn.

Right before I fled New York.

for my sister.
for California.

We’ve been eye-friends for a long time now,
And I knew she had this story.

I told her mine.

I’ve never sounded
more like a teacher,
I said.

I told him, I said.

Over and over.

You don’t need to do this.

You don’t need to do this.

You know,
I’ve never needed the
metal seahorses
I’ve bought from her,

Three now.

She held my gaze steady,
When I said,
I guess I’ll go teach.

Don’t hide with the children,
she said.

Look at the way
your eyes are.

You make things,
she said.

Go be with your sister,
she said.

Then go make things.

It’s for women like you.

Lessons:

1. You couldn’t have prevented it. But also, you did prevent it. You’re still here.
2. Time. Take it.
3. You will feel ugly. It’s okay. Let it be a lesson in that we owe no one being beautiful. Cut that noise.
4. You are beautiful. For all the reasons that aren’t your body. And all the reasons that are your body.
5. Find your sisters. Find your brothers. Find the people who will let you speak.
6. When you’re ready to speak.
7. The lessons will keep coming, this is like a fast track for shaking all of the dust out of every corner of your life.
8. Sometimes you’ll laugh instead of crying.
9. These are only mine… they don’t have to be yours.
10. There are more. So many more. Share them.

***

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Brittany Connors

Brittany Connors

Brittany Connors is an actress, writer, and general life enthusiast based out of NYC. She is a lover of story, text, and all of the various expressions we find to make sense of ourselves and the world around us. She believes all expression is a celebration of this breathtaking existence.