First Kiss

I had my first kiss with a freckled red-haired boy from my second grade class

who probably weighed 40 pounds and who said nothing nice to me

in the box-tight dark under his bed

when his face was so close that

I couldn’t move my chin without touching him,

and all my air tasted

used.

“Kiss me or I’ll drop it on you,”

meaning the bed,

whose slats creaked above his skinny shoulders

as he pushed them up,

just enough to prove that he could lift it,

just enough for me to catch my breath

and see the line of light beneath the bedskirt.

That didn’t feel right.

That wasn’t right,

was it?

[He’s pulling pigtails.

Oh my god how cute.

He wants to be your boyfriend.]

It was nothing.

Nothing to think about.

Nothing to tell.

I shut my mouth. I left

the bed behind,

and when I heard the slats creak

in my head

I’d snarl over my shoulder at

the stupid girl

who thought the bed could fall

the pansy ass

who didn’t bust his nose

the liar,

never petrified

like [real threats] would have done,

just sick,

like anesthetic,

or like wrong.

Now,

all grown and knowing better,

I still hesitate to write this

[attention whore]          

to draw the lines

[you’re overreaching]

connect the dots between

[feminist bullshit]

·                  the dark under the bed

                     and

·   the hazy bathroom tiles

·         the 40-pound ton

   and

·         the knots at my wrists   

·         the line of light

            and

·            the stripe of dust

beneath the cabinet door

Stupid.

This is what happens when you play games.

Coward.

You never should have let it get this far.

Liar.     Liar.     Liar.

[I’m not saying she’s asking for it, but ...

Once boys get going, they can’t stop.

Charges like that could ruin his life.]

It was a misunderstanding.

My voice is tired

from yelling

at        

the stupid lying bitch

inside that memory.

           

There’s no one else to yell at.

Memories like this,

they’re all about what isn’t there.

The boys have no faces.

They have hands,

and weight,

and spit.

They have minutes,

and if I wait them out

their minutes will be finished

and mine can start again.

My oldest daughter is

in second grade this year.

I haven’t taught her 

to        

be still

or        

silent;

to believe

she’s someone’s right;

how to be

the blamer

and

the blamed.

I swear to God

I haven’t taught her that.

Nobody has taught her that.

Everybody has.

ENOUGH.

I

won’t

speak

this

language

anymore.

I’m taking this space back

for my daughter,

this inverse space,

the meanings we don’t say       

the judgments we aren’t making.

I’ll dig the prosecutor’s voice

out of her head.

There has to be

another one,

a voice that will not quiet,

saying

Oh my love,

You’re pinned beneath

a boy and not a bed;

a boy can make decisions, not decrees.

A boy can move.

My love,

he has no right.

My love,

you’re one of many.

I’m so sorry. But you are.

My love,

you’re no less human

than he, or she, or them.

Own your right.

You are your right.

You require no permission

and you owe no apology.

It has to be my voice

but       not       just      my       voice.

It has to be her own voice,

and yours,

so if she is ever

trapped

beneath a boy, beneath a bed

stiffening against an ATM

 white knuckling a subway seat,

if she’s ever

cussed for not smiling on demand

backed into the bar by “friendly” drunks

ass-slapped by a stranger

                        called a cunt by some troll

the first thing she will think

will not be

[how did I invite this]

but

Stop.

You

Are

Accountable

To

Me.

We’ll find another language

for our daughters

and our sons.

Speak.

Let’s speak.