Getting older, you never got old.
A gold mine of girl: doe-eyed, sold.
In front of the shutter’s clicking,
you did what he said, lens-fucking,
muttering No hope for women.
Piano to camera-ready, plucked at eighteen,
barely steady, heavy with mood.
Suddenly, you made scarce, laid low.
Suddenly, a surprise: you arrived
again, new world, sullen girls telling tales.
Here’s what they never knew:
you were #MeToo before its time,
a million girls clinging and climbing
a rope they barely knew you threw.
You grew. Now new hope for women.
No more downward slope, no resorting
to self-hurt, believing women are the hope
that wasn’t. You’re 41, still not done
with confessions, bad impressions, so witchy,
crazy, onstage with hair in a scrunchie, no longer
dazed and wanton on film. Now called touched,
tired, worn. Still beautiful, still wan.
Once, a man caused you harm, wound, fracture,
alarm. Unheard, you didn’t shut down; howled
open the fissure further, sang disaster.
Once, you were a girl, sorry she broke a boy
just because she could. But now it feels good.
See more poems from Issue 17.2 by purchasing a copy in our online store. Digital copies only $5.
