Poem of the Day

IF THERE IS NO ONE TO LISTEN, THERE IS NO ONE TO SAY IT

I have her hidden, down here. Noose upon noose, nose upon nose. She claws at the unhidden heights, my open face, my eager handshake, from the secret belly. Drowning, half in, half out, of the acid lake. Drowning for two decades, thrashing about and no one to save her. Actually, she expects me. But how can I pull her up? I would choke.

There is an old goat on a hill in Sicily that for one month of every year grows pearly white hair and then sheds it, evidently preferring to stay naked for the rest of the time. He is like certain austere, athletic men I know, gym-goers in white shorts and kinetic bodies, wielding tennis rackets, running a kilometer outside in October. Age has made them like boys: jovial, defiant against comfort. They spend days in the sauna or swimming laps. They prefer to be as naked as possible, skin dim and infused with sweat, stretched and curled in gray, proud, tight, curved muscles over the protruding stomach. They each walk around with shoulders thrust back and a certain rich satisfaction of bald spots and sinews and shamelessness. Yes, that’s it, the old goats are shameless, enlightened babies.

Shame is an ingredient, like garlic, we learn to cook with because our mothers cooked with it. Nothing tastes right without it. Shame flavors the dishes while we wonder who we are and where we will be. Those questions are answered often with “You’re not enough, you will soon enough be in hell.” Soon, we can tell when that flavor is missing, that kick, that edge. Some take is so much to heart that they learn to scorn sweet dishes, pastries, candies. Some say you can never use too much garlic. We stay meek, we stay at the kitchen table, we eat everything in front of it. If we are not enough now, how could we possibly be in the future? The best we can do is to hope to stay here, in limbo, eating shame and learning to love it. We learn to apologize for our hearts and voices, voices from a place kept so low, so distant.

If there is no one to listen, there is no one to say it.

There is an old goat in Sicily named Mauricio, and I am in love with him. He says my breasts are like small pears. Once he nearly bit the nipple off, sucking some imagined sweet juice. We were standing in a lit alley behind the restaurant my uncle owned.

He slips a gruff, firm hand between my thighs and moans, “sweet little pussy.” It is here that my body shakes and Jesus and mother and all skies and hills stop for one second and here I am floating this horseshoe of pleasure under my dress. I have not let him make love to me. For now, this is all the shame I can handle. This delicious shame which makes me fly.

Why is woman the wagon of shame?

All virtues must rest in her, where would Dante’s Virgil be without the virtue of Beatrice? Woman, standard of all best and worst in human. Angel and animal; the paragon which must lead men away from war and remind them of divinity; at the same time, the temptress who ruined Adam, the scourge and demon to thinkers and poets and painters and all great men. Woman who cannot help herself. Woman who must receive shame as birthright. Breasts are shameful, vagina is shameless, the curve of the waste is shame in its beauty for it is the visible reminder of the hips, the dome of the fruit of life. Yes, men would be good if it weren’t for women confusing them with lust and wandering around towns and houses needing constant supervision. Where would woman be without shame? What powers might she have invoked for herself without that self-imposed guard? And women, women are the worst of it, and give the worst of it to each other. For they believe their prison to be the just circumstances of the world, and to even thank God for it.

Mother Mary, save me from this.

You are not enough;, you will go to hell.

MOTHER: Thank you God for my humility.

FATHER: Thank you God for not making me a woman.

And she, her, the one who must suffer in the acidity of my fear, she who calls for me, whose arms wave up, she who looks like me, but darker, all eyes and arms and black hair, she will bear the burden of all Sundays, of my youth and beauty and my failings as woman. She will have the fire I do not, as I have the face that must greet the world, that world aglow with duties and truths no man, or woman can change. The truth of a woman’s shame, beautiful shame hated and loved and caressed and choked by all others.

Mauricio squeezes my hand and unzips his trousers. Night has fallen and our village is at festival. He begs my sweet mouth on his body, in that place of most pleasure and potency in a man. He urges me down with his hands, till I am on my knees.

“No, No.”

“Suck my dick, slut.” Sudden animal hunger, I swallow the sausage greedily, I open my mouth to the meat and please him until his groan signals his cum in my mouth. It tastes like garlic.

To show he means to have me do this many more times, he tells me I am a good girl and buys me ice cream and waffles. I want to tell him that I love him but he will not look at me, the white of his right eye, an unblinking guard.

If there is no one to listen, there is no one to say it.

Mother says women need laws and codes to protect them from bad men and from themselves. Fathers and brothers must defend the honor of their wives, daughters and sisters. “A woman is easily manipulated by a man,” she says. “Without good men to protect us, we would be made whores and slaves.”

My mother has given my father five children. Sometimes at night, he comes home to beat her and then force her to bed. I have heard it my whole life from my room. My brothers never have said a word. They are happy to have her clean and cook for them. They are happy that God did not make them a woman.

I pray at night to the Virgin Mary only. I say, “Holy Mary, it is you who know the heart and fate of women. You are the blessed and perfect woman, through whom the Lord left his seed. Help me to be a good woman. Show me how to live in shame but without deserving shame.”

To live in a state of constant apology for your nature, what it might do…all the while wishing that you will somehow be different than you have been created.

I pray to the Virgin Mary, but neglect Jesus and all the male saints. They do not understand me. Even God, being a He, might not understand why I do what I do with Mauricio. I am sure I am going to hell anyway.

Mauricio, stomach banded in muscle, gruff, fifty-five year old lips sighing, “I want to fuck you, little slut,” so lovingly. So shamelessly.

I pray to the Virgin to guide me from my mother’s table to the place where I can be rid of this taste always on my tongue. To be rid of my body, this wagon that he wheels around. When he is touching me, I wait for that one second where darkness descends and all shame becomes a compass, a rocket, shooting upwards to heaven, and me on top.

The one, inside, still drowning, has been whispering lately. She is trying to come up slowly but the walls are slippery. Who is she, where is she going? What would she say if I let her move in, like a second self, into my eyes and throat and nose?

Tonight Mauricio will make me have sex with him. I feel it as he squeezes my breasts behind the restaurant.

“I love you.” I mumble this now because I think it will tame his hunger, make him more gentle. He says nothing but takes his penis out and shows it to me, stiff and brown. I know what he means for me to do, but I stand.

“I love you.” I say again.

Has he heard me? He pushes me down, thrusts into my mouth. I wait, I need for him to call me “little slut” so I can enjoy this, but he doesn’t. He’s only groaning and forcing my head closer and closer.

“Hurry up. Hurry up. My wife is here tonight.”

Maybe it was because, crouched down like that, my stomach and my throat and my mouth were almost a straight, close path, but whatever the reason, she, who had always been waiting, reached, grabbed my back teeth and hauled herself up, out of that pit of acid and fear and settled right there, behind my eyes.

And the first thing she did was bite. Maybe she misunderstood the process. Maybe she was anxious for that taste of meat, followed with a salty garlic white sauce. Maybe she was angry to finally come up for air and find a penis in her mouth. Whatever the reason, she bit hard.

“Mauricio, you never told me you had a wife.” she realizes suddenly how melodious her voice is, even with her mouth full. I am just sitting back, watching. She stands up. Her vision is crisp, I feel as if I have new glasses. Her hearing, however is poor, because Mauricio is on the ground, writhing, and moving his lips, but no sound comes out.

Maybe he is not saying anything. If there is no one to listen, there is no one to say it.