A poem - but a downer.

[katepoet]

Thanksgiving, 1978

Too far away to go home,
I stayed in the dorm
alone but for one other-
Steve, perhaps.
I don't remember your name but
I remember enough.

In the lounge, we watched TV,
football, of course-
after I had used my hotpot
to cook the instant
Thanksgiving my mother
had carefully packed
into a brown cardboard box,
her beautiful script
penned my name on the paper wrapper.

You had been drinking, I guess,
I didn't know,
hadn't become a specialist yet
in identifying the smell of scotch,
rum, beer; booze on a man's breath,
in a woman's sweat,
scent of addiction.

I sat in back of you,
orange stacking chair.
You turned, noticed me,
I knew your name
when you moved to sit next to me-
we had met before at a party,
the one where you and the other men
picked up the women,
four of you to one of us,
grabbed each vibrant, smiling girl
no permission given,
swung her by her hands and feet,
threatening to dump her in the shower,
ignoring the nos,
screams of frustration,
drenching clothes,
damping egos.

When four of you came for me,
got my hands and feet,
I did not scream or yell,
I pushed hard on the hands that held my soles,
my soul,
flipped over and out of all of your grasping hands,
landing on my blue-and-white Adidas.
Feeling strong, I picked you up,
not the smallest man there-
the man who had chosen me as a target-
carried you down the hall,
threatened you with the shower,
laughing joyfully at my strength.
no different, I thought, than what you had done to us.

Thanksgiving.
In the lounge.
Not expecting or sensing any threat,
I did not know the affront I had committed,
did not sense your enmity,
limit my friendship, treat you as my adversary-
untrustworthy, suspect,
dangerous.

You laid your arm on my chair,
placed your hand on my shoulder-
shy, polite, uncomfortable,
I ignored your unwanted advance,
finished my thought about
football or family,
Thanksgivings past.

You tried to kiss me,
I stood up and left you there,
probably said I was going to my room,
write letters home, hit the books,
anything.

Upstairs, the long hall to my door,
two-inch thick oaken safety ten feet away,
suddenly you, running,
racing down the hall to stop me,
calling something- I don't remember what,
scaring the hell out of me.

Dashing for my room,
I turned the key, pushed the door open,
closed it quickly behind me,
too late,
your foot stopped the door.

All my strength
I shoved until I latched the chain,
slid the brass button into the narrow slot.
Begging and pleading,
you desired entry to my room,
to violate my space,
breach my defenses,
force my hand and legs
to prove your potency,
achieve my submission.

My sense of time fled-
your foot in my door too long,
you pleading, me refusing you ingress,
until I lied.
Move your foot so I can unlatch the chain.
I let the door open, just a little,
you extracted your sneaker,
waiting to be rewarded for your generosity,
I slammed the door and turned the bolt lock knob.

I sat knees held tight against my chest
in the farthest corner of the room,
on my bed, waiting,
while you pounded at my door for an hour.

That night, I didn't sleep,
waiting for your return,
couldn't risk the women's restroom
down the hall, you could be lurking anywhere.
In the morning,
dawn signaling the long night was over,
eight pages of hand-written notebook paper
slid beneath my door,
your apology,
blaming alcohol, begging forgiveness,
shame darkening every curving letter.

I never told on you,
saving myself in those days
meant no harm done.
Your letter, a reminder of my fear,
weakness, ignorance,
my shame,
went in the trash.
I don't remember your name but
I remember enough.

Katherine A Minden 2007