With No Where to Go

A quiet little horror.

I see their women’s hands,
trying and patient,
Trying patience to not fight too hard
for the 2' by 4' space of sink and mirror
when 18 must bring the morning into their faces before
the welcome arms of the shelter fold tightly.
7:30 am.

Don’t-pull-my-heart-strings,
say the people accustomed to silence and showers and cozy spaces
smelling of their name,
their name on the kitchen table,
under the faucet,
inside the closets.
Don’t-fuck-with-my-heart- strings.

I forced myself to silence as I listened to a woman explain how
she had given all she had
to another
so that that woman could get home to her family and
never, never have to be a survivor
like her.

Never, never have to be awakened by a brusque kick
or to find her only walking friend shoes stolen in the night.

She said, “Why can’t the people with money do the same?
Why? Or even almost the same?
We don’t want too much. Just a place to go
and some dignity.”

I reached out and pulled my temper DOWN as the city council woman
moaned in thick response about the woes of
vain papers pushing no where special.
My woman’s ruptured back screaming into the corners of
the well-furnished city servant’s office.

I am Home.
Drinking the comfort of my living room,
mental din of traffic begins to fade,
defenses of pavement stares and catcalls disappear.
Muscle ticks slow. I can process my day.

I can be vulnerable in this 7 bedroom house.
I have a selection of music.
I can leave my stuff on the floor.
I can come and go.
I can light a candle for just me and stick it on my little
table to give praise for these honors.

Praise, for quiet little honors.

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