Begin in a place with no end
ask because no one knows they should
now because history grows sore on her feminine and there needs to be a remedy
*
One morning she woke up and spoke, “The most dangerous parts of me.”
Gather belongings: thighs, fragmented collarbone, cleaved lips, fingerprints, clumps of hair, dangling clitoris, breasts almost hauled off body, nightmares, the leftover pills, one pair of underwear without hem or elastic, a needle bent and bleeding, three bandages without adhesive, a condom, extra sweater soiled and weary, loose change offering music while the clank of existence hums.
Her name is daughter. At fifteen, she replaced chewing with swallowing.
The rain came/
wind pushed against her bruises/
too late for a sex talk/
*
And then
a climb toward her highest window. She could not afford a security system so
there was breaking when he entered
*
skin grows resistant to carpet threads against kneecaps
push of circumcised erection against unclaimed cavity
*
Now
Talk about the time he / when he cut / called whore / loaded infliction inside and
*
Talk about the time he / all doors locked and your bag was / he said he would blur out your face and only show parts for purchasing
*
Talk about the time your mother approached you like a business owner
“I made you,” she said. “I gathered you for nine months. Now…
give.it.away
”
(I) remember…
*
smoked cigarettes delivered in his mailbox
stroked the cancer that lay benign in his groin
slept against the indentation his wife made in king-sized mattress
swept up reticence while he stole several slices of her my being
*
Several months later,
Drank orange juice and threw it down her my throat to gag his tongue away.
*
And then
He said “It is because of men like me that women like you exist.”
He said “You don’t act gay. I can tell you like it.”
She I envisioned his small penis as an oversized clit and bit down on her my imagination
*
It is different.
It is different when you are white / when you have a mailbox and home to hide in / when your water is turned on and there is soap to suck on / when you can stop if you really want to / it is different when you start to tell people and they ask if you liked it / did you fake it / what does your boyfriend think / husband / what do you mean you’re queer / trans gender / was it painful / and they ask, was it fun / and they ask, did they make you feel good / did you feel good / do you feel /
The men never ask what book she I am reading or / if she I voted for the right person or
her my stance on war or /
*
She I just wanted to know what it would feel like to be feminine:
pigment of wax hair inching past shoulders distance from floor to feet lace
*
Someone recognizes her me from when she I . . . .
The next day, she I decide to stop
a reverse strip-tease
*
suddenly,
She I miss the instability of her my body.
one last time she I whisper
*
because she I cannot remember what happened the last time
because infection arrives once and then it lays dormant
because boredom is worse than being breathed against by strangers
because she I worry she I like it
*
The next day, she I sit at a desk and flirt with silence. She I break a muscle in her my thigh from clenching her my right and left together. Then, she I was asked to read a poem. She I was asked to make supper. She I was expected to balance a checkbook. She I was forced to fuck five men in a span of four hours. She I was pushed against bricks and asked to smile even when the blood escaped. She I was persuaded to use her my cunt as a cabinet; with limited space, the objects just kept falling out. She I was mistaken for a human. She I was kissed as though her my lips were clean. She I was held. She I was burned.
What does it mean to be kissed with an instrumental mouth?
to be asked may I continue
to be told beauty exists where trauma ends
an attempt at love
(and there is always an end to a beginning too strong to withstand memory)
Begin. (because we need a reason to understand/ (I need a reason to understand)
Begin with the sound of envelopes unlatching / no, a mother unclasping sanity from forearms and cigarette-distracted teeth / or when uncle hugged her so hard the sound of tearing became familiar / and the first inhale of stimulants / or when she was told masturbation was a crime, so she was already a criminal /
*
There is need for binding. to strap parts down that have been misplaced, mishandled, misunderstood. to place make-up on parts that are malnourished, malleable, monsterized. to channel first love and think of her/him/them. when being fucked by strangers, creatures, owners. to forget where home is. Moldova. Tel Aviv. Mother’s womb. Orphanage. New Jersey. Manhattan. Boulder. A home. Room. Closet. To understand the why: too poor, too pained, language barrier, body barrier, abuse, rent, for passport, for family, for food, for drugs, to exist…
When I was twenty-six or nineteen or thirty-two, I was a crime. I began inside a body and continue the burden of translation. Here is my reason: loss of/ addiction to/ disregard toward/ removal.
Today. Tonight. In more moments that fit inside a memorial service, I think about the doorknobs of strangers and the moments I may not have exited. I think about the parking garages. I think about the hotel rooms. I think about I think about when she stopped having sex with me because my body reeked. I think about I think about the interruption of orgasm with tear loss each time I try to touch myself. I think about I think about what lays dormant in me and the fear that I will go back to it. I think about I think about how orgasms anger my body. I think about I think about the stains, my skin a giant rorshach and I am trying to understand it. And I am trying to move beyond it. I think about I think about loss of friendships, inability to access normalcy, a need to remove the real from relationships. I think about I think about what I keep trying to cut out of me. I think about I think about all those showers I had to take all that soap sopping up the shadows on my skin. I think about I am thinking about I am thinking about forgiveness.
Aimee Herman 