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I started writing this poem when

Janet Kuypers
written 1/27/14, inspired from Vittorio Carli’s “Poem for Richard Blanco”

I started writing this poem when the umbilical cord was cut,
                                                     even though I should know better.
                                                     I was never close enough to you.
 
I started writing this poem when I scratched when I had the chicken pox.
 
I started writing this poem when I took the final swig of vodka
                                                     and reached for the bottle to pour myself another.
I started writing this poem when I found myself trying to make excuses.
I started writing this poem when I wiped the make-up off my eyelids
                                                     and wondered who I was trying to impress.
I started writing this poem when I met you, the man who rapes my sisters.
                                                     You, the man who rapes me.
 
I started writing this poem when I pulled out a fountain pen
                                                     and wrote ‘til my fountain pen ran dry.
 
I started writing this poem when the Pope gave a “thank you” to women who work
                                                     because we do more than our fair share
                                                     without fair pay, as we prove yourselves to who
                                                     over and over and over again.
 
I started writing this poem when I belched out loud, laughed too hard, swore too much
                                                     and grew up too fast.
 
I started writing this poem when I felt that feeling in my chest, right between my lungs,
                                                     like someone was pressing against the bone there,
                                                     right there, by your heart.
I started writing this poem when I looked at the clock. It was fifteen minutes
                                                     before I had to take another pill.
 
I started writing this poem when I realized that nothing changes,
                                                     and nothing stays the same.
 
I started writing this poem when you took my thoughts again,
                                                     shoved them into your mouth again
                                                     and spit them back at me again —
                                                     and you told me what I already know.
 
I started writing this poem when you rolled your sultry deep voice over me
                                                     like a wave of heat on a summer afternoon.
 
I started writing this poem when I felt that breeze, hot and sticky,
                                                     hit me in just the wrong way.
 
I started writing this poem when you needed a leader, so I stepped up to the plate.
                                                     You kept asking for a big brother
                                                     and I’m here to set you straight —
I started writing this poem when I knew who they were coming for.
I started writing this poem when I threw out into the open my screams, my cries for help
                                                     so much faster than I could before.
I started writing this poem when she said, when somebody eats one of you,
                                                     word gets around.
I started writing this poem when I found a method of fighting more direct,
                                                     slower, more painful, more personal.
I started writing this poem when I realized that somebody has to die for these.
I started writing this poem when the cuts into my hands dripped blood onto the street.
I started writing this poem when I’d walk down that street in the city again
                                                     and it looks look like a Quentin Tarantino movie
                                                     where everyone’s pointing guns at each other.
I started writing this poem when after years of putting the 9 mil to the line,
                                                     of knowing the base of the neck was the best place,
                                                     my only thought was: aim carefully.
I started writing this poem when the only choice we had
                                                     was to destroy ourselves.
 
I started writing this poem when I drizzled cream into my coffee,
                                                     watchd it form a mushroom cloud
                                                     within that contained bomb,
                                                     when
                                                     you just died.
 
I started writing this poem when you took me into that casket with you,
                                                     where I felt the coldness of winter all around me,
                                                     and I heard them shoveling the dirt over my head.
 
I started writing this poem when I survived the blizzards, the hurricanes, the tornadoes.
                                                     I lived through the drought; I’ve survived it all —
                

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