Blue Blanket | Andrea Gibson
I heard this poem tonight at a vigil for domestic violence and holy shit.
Still
there are days
when there is no way.
Not even a chance
that I dare, for even a second, glance at the reflection of my body in the mirror,
and she knows why,
like I know why she only cries when she feels she’s about to lose control.
She knows how much control is worth.
She knows how much a woman can lose when her power to move
is taken away,
by a grip so thick with hate it could
clip the wings of god,
send the next eight generations of your blood shaking
and tonight something inside me is breaking,
my heart beating so deep beneath the sheets of pain.
I could give every tear she’s crying a name,
a year,
and a face I’d forever erase if I could, just like she would
for you,
or me.
But how free would any of us be if even a few forgot what too many women in this world cannot,
and what the hell would you tell your daughter?
Your someday-daughter,
when you have to hold her beautiful face to the beat-up face of this place
that hasn’t learned the meaning of STOP.
STOP.
What would you tell your daughter
of the womb raped empty?
The eyes swollen shut?
The gut too frightened to hold food?
It was seven minutes of the worst kind of hell.
Seven,
and she stopped believing in heaven;
mistrust became her law, fear her bible -
the only chance of survival: don’t trust any of them.
Bolt the doors to your home, iron-gate the windows -
walking to the car alone, get the key in the lock like
please,
please, please, please open
like already she can feel the five-fingered noose around her neck,
two-hundred pounds of hate digging graves into the sacred soil of her flesh.
Please,
please, please, please, please open.
Already she can hear the broken-record of the defense:
“Answer the question, answer the question, answer the question, Miss.”
Why am I on trial for this?
Would you talk to your mother, your daughter, your sister like this?
I am generations of mothers, daughters, sisters -
bodies: battlefields, war zones beneath the weapons of your brothers’ hands.
Do you know they’ve found land mines in broken women’s souls?
Black holes in the parts of their hearts that once sang symphonies of creation
as bright as the light on infinity’s halo?
She said, “I remember how love used to glow like glitter on my skin before he made his way in,
now every touch feels like a sin that could crucify medusa.
Kali, Oshun, Mary,
bury me in a blue blanket so god doesn’t know I’m a girl,
cut off my curls,
I want peace when I’m dead.
Her friend knocks at the door, “It’s been three weeks. Don’t you think it’s time you got out of bed?”
“No,
the ceiling fan still feeling like his breath,
I think I need just a few more days of rest.”
Bruises on her knees from begging to forget -
she’s heard stories of Vietnam vets who can still feel the tingling of their amputated limbs;
she’s wondering how many women are walking around this world still feeling the tingling
of their amputated wings, remembering what it was to fly, to sing.
Tonight,
she’s not wondering what she would tell her daughter;
she knows what she would tell her daughter:
she’d ask her, “What gods do you believe in?
I’ll build you temple of mirrors so you can see them,
pick the brightest star you ever wished on and I’ll show the light in you
that made that wish come true.”
Tonight,
she’s not asking what you would tell your daughter.
She’s life deep in the hell,
the slaughter;
she’s already died a thousand deaths with every unsteady breath,
a thousand graves in every pore of her flesh;
and she knows the war’s not over.
She knows there’s bleeding to come,
and knows she’s far from the only woman or girl trusting this world no more
than the hands trust rusted barbed wire.
She was whole before that night,
believed in heaven before that night ,
and she knows she won’t be the only one.
No, she knows she won’t be the only one.
She’s not asking
what you’re gonna tell your daughter.
She’s asking what
you’re gonna teach
your son.
Still
there are days
when there is no way.
Not even a chance
that I dare, for even a second, glance at the reflection of my body in the mirror,
and she knows why,
like I know why she only cries when she feels she’s about to lose control.
She knows how much control is worth.
She knows how much a woman can lose when her power to move
is taken away,
by a grip so thick with hate it could
clip the wings of god,
send the next eight generations of your blood shaking
and tonight something inside me is breaking,
my heart beating so deep beneath the sheets of pain.
I could give every tear she’s crying a name,
a year,
and a face I’d forever erase if I could, just like she would
for you,
or me.
But how free would any of us be if even a few forgot what too many women in this world cannot,
and what the hell would you tell your daughter?
Your someday-daughter,
when you have to hold her beautiful face to the beat-up face of this place
that hasn’t learned the meaning of STOP.
STOP.
What would you tell your daughter
of the womb raped empty?
The eyes swollen shut?
The gut too frightened to hold food?
It was seven minutes of the worst kind of hell.
Seven,
and she stopped believing in heaven;
mistrust became her law, fear her bible -
the only chance of survival: don’t trust any of them.
Bolt the doors to your home, iron-gate the windows -
walking to the car alone, get the key in the lock like
please,
please, please, please open
like already she can feel the five-fingered noose around her neck,
two-hundred pounds of hate digging graves into the sacred soil of her flesh.
Please,
please, please, please, please open.
Already she can hear the broken-record of the defense:
“Answer the question, answer the question, answer the question, Miss.”
Why am I on trial for this?
Would you talk to your mother, your daughter, your sister like this?
I am generations of mothers, daughters, sisters -
bodies: battlefields, war zones beneath the weapons of your brothers’ hands.
Do you know they’ve found land mines in broken women’s souls?
Black holes in the parts of their hearts that once sang symphonies of creation
as bright as the light on infinity’s halo?
She said, “I remember how love used to glow like glitter on my skin before he made his way in,
now every touch feels like a sin that could crucify medusa.
Kali, Oshun, Mary,
bury me in a blue blanket so god doesn’t know I’m a girl,
cut off my curls,
I want peace when I’m dead.
Her friend knocks at the door, “It’s been three weeks. Don’t you think it’s time you got out of bed?”
“No,
the ceiling fan still feeling like his breath,
I think I need just a few more days of rest.”
Bruises on her knees from begging to forget -
she’s heard stories of Vietnam vets who can still feel the tingling of their amputated limbs;
she’s wondering how many women are walking around this world still feeling the tingling
of their amputated wings, remembering what it was to fly, to sing.
Tonight,
she’s not wondering what she would tell her daughter;
she knows what she would tell her daughter:
she’d ask her, “What gods do you believe in?
I’ll build you temple of mirrors so you can see them,
pick the brightest star you ever wished on and I’ll show the light in you
that made that wish come true.”
Tonight,
she’s not asking what you would tell your daughter.
She’s life deep in the hell,
the slaughter;
she’s already died a thousand deaths with every unsteady breath,
a thousand graves in every pore of her flesh;
and she knows the war’s not over.
She knows there’s bleeding to come,
and knows she’s far from the only woman or girl trusting this world no more
than the hands trust rusted barbed wire.
She was whole before that night,
believed in heaven before that night ,
and she knows she won’t be the only one.
No, she knows she won’t be the only one.
She’s not asking
what you’re gonna tell your daughter.
She’s asking what
you’re gonna teach
your son.