Sunday, March 24, 2013

Another Punchline for Your Jokes About Rape


We’re bound
by an act, one night

Do you dream
about me?
Do you remember me
the way I
remember you?

Did you tell your friends
about the night we spent?
Was it good for you,
the things you made me do?

Did my struggle
excite you, did you get
hard when I told you
it hurt, when I said


when I gasped
for breath,
when it all
spun black?

They must have
fulfilled you, the things
you forced me into.
You were still there
the morning after,
when you brought me, bruised,
the pineapple juice
I could not smell
for one thousand days.

*This poem was first published by Other: _________ in 2005. I'm posting it again now due to, sadly, how hilarious Americans, including some men who are ostensibly my friends, find rape jokes and references--and, by extension, my own rape, and that of both women and men I love. I'd much rather hear myself than them on this subject. It does lead one to wonder, though: would they point and jeer if they happened to have seen us being raped, too, or is it just funny to hear the jokes later that they are making at our expense, whether they know it or not, whether they care or not--and, given Americans' depressing and at times overwhelming silence in deference to the bully, to where all I can hear is their canned laughter at the bullied, how can I or anyone who's been raped, and/or anyone who's loved anyone who's been raped, male or female, possibly assume they see us as anything other than cannon fodder, much like our rapists did/do/will? It wasn't being assaulted that made me feel this way, but what I assumed was a basic inherent human decency that doesn't strike me as particularly remarkable. And yet this decency no longer seems so basic, or so inherent.


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