CONFESSIONAL

In which I started writing about poets & landed here

“All safe and sound
All safe and sound, I won't let the psychos around
All safe and sound, I won't let the psychos around

I'm in a state, I'm in a state
Nothing can touch us, my love
I'm in a state, I'm in a state
Nothing can touch us, my love”

— “All the Wine,” The National

“I am a lantern—”

— Sylvia Plath

But I did it first, he said — 
what a snob, 
not knowing or caring 
that he was never going to be as interesting 
as the women were to me

And that, of course, included myself.

So maybe now I could get brave enough to write 
one of those bedroom memoirs he mentioned,
as if it were beneath him, 

Only this time I wouldn’t write 
about that really bad thing that happened 
& tell you it was fiction —
I’m too tired to pretend otherwise, now

Tired of protecting the men 
from what the other men did 
to me 
without my — 

Anyway I’m bored with all that,
Right now I’d rather argue
where my feelings are today instead of then,
But here I go anyway, because I’ll tell you this, 
when that man followed me 
down the street the other day 

& I was coming up with escape plans at 9 in the morning
I thought about, for the first time in a long time, 
the way my bruises had looked exactly like his fingerprints.

I thought about it the rest of the day

& I dreamed about it again

& I woke up sweating

& mad

Remembering everything:
the towel slipping, my face in his mirror, all those years ago,
My body no longer my body

But this time 
when I got up from this bed & walked to my bathroom mirror, 
I looked back at
Me, 
Safe, 
Unbruised,
Free — 

It doesn’t mean I’m not still mad.
It’s just that these days I manage my peace.

This wasn’t the poem I was going to write.

Because the thing is, 
I’ve never actually read Snodgrass 
that I can recall,

So I’m sorry but I don’t really care
if all this is upsetting to you
because I tell you 
I’m just fine & I’ve been fine 
& I’ll be fine

The point is,
After all this, Sylvia & Anne’s words still burn 
in a way his likely never could —
Like recently, when I opened 
the selected poems of Anne Sexton at the bookstore
where nobody knew or remembered or cared 
I’d volunteered there 
when it was mostly sawdust & stacks

But I knew — I knew 
like I remembered those 
fingerprint bruises
& what I’m capable of 
& that was enough

Because like Anne,

“I am not lazy.
I am on the amphetamine of the soul.” 

Of course as I write this poem
I wasn’t going to write, 
I have to confess 
I’m listening to another kind of poet — a favorite
& yes, he is a man, in fact, like he just sang, 
“I’m a perfect piece of ass”

And I’m ready, I’m ready to tell it
& know, thank God, I didn’t do it first 
& neither did he

But here’s my brother, 
texting me about Jane Austen,
& I’m reminded all over again of what exactly 
I’m trying 
to protect.

I edited all the worst parts out.