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Tag Archives: crime

A Hymn for You.

15 Saturday Dec 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

blood, crime, hymn, lost, poem, trauma, unknown victim, woman

No one was looking for you, but I guess I was meant to find you. 
It happens sometimes when you’re adventurous, curious, 
spelunking in roadside limestone caves or shuttered buildings
nobody has any business being in, but we go. 
Dare, we go. 

I want to believe that if I sprinkled water onto your bloodstain
shadow on the cement floor I could reconstitute you,
I could bring you back to us so I could know your name. 

No one was looking for you, but I guess I was meant to find you. 
Somebody’s daughter. Maybe somebody’s mama caught up in 
the life. They brung her down here for trade, 
you can tell because the torn condom wrappers say “ribbed for her pleasure.” 

The reconstituted you tells me you don’t know why things went wrong,
it was supposed to be a simple cop, but it turned into
something else she hardly cared about,
it would be over soon
and there was no reason to bring out the knife
she assures me. She was only fake fighting back, after all. 

She slides back down into her bloodstain 
her body taken wherever they took, quiet again. 
She bears no wounds of the holy martyr, pierced in the side by 
fated centurion, followers capturing the flood in a cup
prepared to write hymns for her future. 
She was only ribbed for your pleasure. 

I gathered wildflowers whose names I do not know. 
I knelt in a field and…
Maybe I’ll let you know when I’m ready to let them go. 

Some Thoughts On Kavanaugh v Ford, though it could be more but you ain’t got time.

28 Friday Sep 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

advice, birds and bees, Catholic, Catholic school, crime, dad, diary, Ford, humiliation, Kavanaugh, listen, make-out, man, mother, period, punished, rape, sea change, sex, sex-ed, teach, teach your son, truth, white male privilege, woman, women's issues

Mom handed me a small hardcover book one day. I can’t remember what year it was, or what room I was in.  I think I was in apartment 3F. She asked me to read these pages, which I did, and she said ask me any questions, which I didn’t, and the whole thing was done.  That’s how I learned about how men get on top of women and they gently rub against one another and some things are exchanged and a baby grows in the woman.  I remember, after reading, feeling kind of weird. Like, the book being presented to me came out of nowhere. I recall feeling like, “Okay….” but not much more.
Probably when Mom presented me with this book when I was in the 5th grade, still in Catholic school, and I can still remember having the best make-outs with someone whose name I shall not say.  Wow.  Maybe Mom knew I was growing and having feelings and probably making out with somebody and thought the birds and the bees talk was appropriate.  I had no idea what to do with his incredible kissing, I had no idea that it can sometimes lead to sex which leads to babies. I had no idea that I was valued and important. All I knew in those 5th grade days was that I had to go to school, that I was picked on for having ugly shoes, socks, and haircut, that I was punished, humiliated in the halls for failing math, and yeah, we had some good times with our friends playing in the courtyard in the back.

Mom sat me at the table one day. It was daylight and we were 60 miles north of the place we used to live, far from the old bullies, but other battles were raging.  I don’t recall how the conversation began but she told me that if I ever got in a situation, I shouldn’t scream “rape” because no one would help. She said I should scream “fire” because everyone would react.  She said if I got in a situation I should say I have some kind of disease and not to do this so you don’t get that disease too, or I have my period.   I don’t remember what year it was or what lead up to that. I guess she figured since I was dating she assumed that heavy petting would be involved which of course leads to sex.  She also told me if I come home pregnant she would break both my legs.  So.  My sexual education wasn’t great. It left me to my own devices, and I made a lot of mistakes. I will never forget the humiliation of my parents reading my diary from when I was in college that detailed beautiful lovemaking with my boyfriend at the time.

Questions. Statements. Humiliation.  Does this sound familiar to you, woman and man? Did your parents leave you to your own devices to figure out the sex thing? Who taught you who to say no or yes about sex? About pubic hair and periods and condoms and consent?

At 1:30EST there will be a vote in the Senate to confirm Brett Kavanaugh as the next Supreme Court Judge.  I’ve followed everything the Trump administration does and his nomination is no exception.  Judge Brett did not impress me because he did not say he would uphold Roe v Wade. He’s been demure about his Bush years. Dr. Ford’s testimony didn’t help much, either.

What this brings to these morning thoughts are more questions than answers.  Is this the sea change we needed to help women stop staying silent and speak out against their assaulters and abusers?  Are more men willing to listen and believe a women when she says she was assaulted?  Will more women come forward and report their rapes and abuse and their testimony be taken seriously? Will families take this moment and use it as an example to teach their boys not to grope and seek gratification and laugh at a person who can’t say no?  Will families take this moment, no matter how embarrassing, to tell their boys don’t force, grope, assault, abuse women, and tell their girls you are loved and you matter and I believe you?  Will we tell our girls you don’t have to kiss that boy or put your hands in his pants or let him do what he wants because it affirms you.  Is this the moment where we tell our children that it’s natural to be attracted and to want, but forcing ourselves on each other is inexcusable?   Will this be a sea change?   I don’t know.  Dr. Ford was assaulted. Judge Kavenaugh says it wasn’t him. Their testimonies were emotional and believable.  This is a teaching moment for all of us and we should take advantage of it.  Teach our daughters their worth, that they won’t be abandoned if they have sex or, worse, raped. Teach them, your face to his face and her face, not in some book the facts of the human body, natural attraction, but to reject force, and to support our girls if peer pressure led them to sexual acts they weren’t ready for and regret, and reinforce our boys the difference between want–attraction–and force, assault.

Support your children with facts. Support your children with the law. Support your children with love.  If you only give them a teaspoon of each, they’ll wind up in a dark hallway giving handjobs because it affirmed them or on their backs because  privilege says this is not a crime.

My mom didn’t know how to do this and I’m betting neither did hers.  Generations told their daughters to be ladylike and polite. Poised. Accepting.  Is this the moment when we can stop a generational fault and teach our sons that it’s not okay to grope, assault, and abuse women, to respect them as equals, and our girls that they are more than help-meets, that we are curious, intellectual, scholarly, strong, brave, and that we matter?

November Evening

18 Saturday Nov 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

cat, crime, evening, neighbor, observations, Senses

Hey Mister Away Man, will you turn your green light out tonight? You never kept it lit before, the one that burns outside your door, Mister Away Man, please turn out your light. All these lights are killing my stars.

Hey Smiling Cat Lady, you keep your blinds down now. I miss seeing your big cat boy,
calico windowsill warmer who stood up and greeted only at seeing your shadow.

Hey blind boy, your big blue eyes not seeing me, I miss your gentle feline crooning coming from next door.  I’m sure mama was not too pleased I PsssPsssPsssPsssted you, causing you curiousity on the windowsill, her little blind boy crooning for the door, but his big, blue eyes were too much for me to ignore.

Hey new neighbor piloting your giant red pick-up, I hear your dinner in the microwave, the door slamming, and it reminds me not to eat in the midnight hours. Who wants to hear bumping doors all hours of the night, or the toilet flushing, or maybe the sound of a Tums bottle opening again.  Hey new neighbor, built like a stick, bent in the wind, long pretty hair blowing as you carry your wee laundry bag downstairs like it weighs all of the world. Are you okay?

Hey lone neighbor will you ever wave to me, or does your digital cammo tell you there’s no law that says we must be friendly.

I hear you, Missus neighbor, coming home from a long day, boots clomping down the walk like Clydesdales heading for the barn. I hope your day was good.

You see me in and out my door 50 times a day, leaning over the balcony looking down on the grass Mister Tony works so hard to raise from the dead. You see me sometimes in jammies, or shorts, most often in jeans and a t-shirt that makes you wonder. Do you know that you make me wonder, and would you worry if you knew I am writing about you?

Oh yeah, mister, you know who you are.  I got my eye on you, and I am definitely writing about you. I think your days are numbered.

Starling Made Me Write It

29 Wednesday Mar 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

bird, crime, mine, poetry, say no, silence, writing

It is the time of saying “no.”  You may not visit my home.  I will not smile because you don’t know what else to say.  I will not give you $40 bucks because they took your house away.

(did you hear any apologies here?)

I will say that I am tired and need to go when I am ready. I will give you compassion, but I’m not feeling sorry for you. I will open my home, my ears, my heart, and purse strings when I want to.

I am not your mark anymore.

I’m chasing poems around with ink, talking to myself and writing secrets in the sand.  I write what I need, when I need, and I reserve the right to hoard my treasures.  This bud’s lips will part and speak when it’s damned good and ready, be it gardenia or stinking corpse lily.  Or maybe the roots will rot, the flower will drop and die like some thief on a rope before anyone hears the word.

Either way, I’m cleaning up the crime scene before you can figure out what hit you.

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