We Will Not Be Silenced: The Lived Experience of Sexual Harassment and Sexual Assault, Told Powerfully Through Poetry, Prose, Essay and Art is in the best seller #1 position for Poetry Anthologies and the #1 New Release in Women’s Poetry on Amazon!
Please, if you have not yet purchased a copy, consider doing so for someone else if not for yourself. You can even purchase to give to a shelter or rape crisis center. We deliberately kept the cost low so most could afford a copy and the message in this incredible anthology would be spread.
my scent, not his scent, but by some changeling blood could spread the same smile on halloween. on christmas waking up in blankets it didn’t fall asleep in.
there’s bricks that hold down a red bottlebrush flower from 1994. remember, she called you honeysuckle, and thought rats had no bones.
i remember my small hand in his big glove, rough inside like sand paper. old yellow leather in a white truck stuck together with luck, cigarettes in a soft pack, right in your shirt pocket, next to the heart in my hand, in your glove in a warm cup of coffee,
i could live on that smell and skip meals for the month of october. just the memory of it, and the dregs of california pain.
i could armor myself in you. live in your flannel and die. carve a valknut in my chest over the hole where no light can get in.
but you’re the one with the valknut – you’re the one who earned it.
through a violent death, but you’d want the cross instead.
of a grin usually on the missing persons board at truck stops where famished men would pick up hitch-hiking girl-children run aways, escaping home to find themselves, smelling like violins in the attic here she is in red-hot-red, rose-red, blood-red, a portrait streak of glitter high-heels with no hosiery ankles with tattoos of talaria wings and a wink at an invisible camera
she’s such a gem, such a picture on the side of the road on her back holding out her upturned palms to catch the diving heavy rain, collecting it inside of the sinkhole of her open mouth, crooked THERE, like a tangled doll.
do you see that glorious photograph of her alive, when she felt so dead and here she is getting the flashing lights she craved, licking the gravel on sunset boulevard, dead as the moon only bright because the camera catches the last expression that her face made before she fell into that uncanny embrace of unknowable death, where the eyes, wide like wax stare out into another, unseen place blind to where everyone else remains now because she’s escaped and found herself
who killed—— ?
the best psychics in venice beach say his name was ——.