He was the man on the bus
who pressed up against me with putrid breath
blowing in my face as he whispered obscenities,
knowing that if I tried to move I would have to come
in contact with his sweaty bulk;
He was the French teacher who leaned in a little more
than necessary, while reviewing a lesson that I had already
gotten a perfect grade on, and who was later discovered to
have molested his students on a field trip to Quebec.
He was the editor who hissed, “Come here, little girl”,
even though I was a fully grown woman who didn’t need him
to wield a pen, nor to put in writing
just what I think of them all.
(previously published in The Makata)