I don’t tell her I can’t save her.
I don’t tell her I’m new at this.
I don’t tell her what she knows:
her color walked in first.
I don’t ask her to talk about the rape.
I don’t tell her she will always be afraid
and I have always been afraid.
I don’t tell her I was screaming
and thought it was the TV,
how blood stained my shirt,
the purple one with “Foxy” on it.
I don’t tell her, sometimes
when a black man walks toward me
blood knocks hard
on a quiet door in my throat.
I don’t tell her she is screaming right in front of me.
I don’t ask her to speak up.
I don’t tell her to come back next week.
She tells me she’ll be back next week.
I don’t tell her she won’t.
Photo: Fox Confessor Brings the Flood by Sharon Morrow
