see bruises or cuts where I was hit or I was afraid he could see I
was raped and I didn’t know how to explain because I had
already lied so it couldn’t be true now later and tears were
coming down my face and he touched the tears and he asked if
I was crying because I loved him and was sad for his sister and I
said yes. He slept then and I went away. I didn’t come back.
There’s this girl I loved but she disappeared a long time ago.
When we were children we played in the rubble in the street, in
the broken cement, on broken glass and with sticks and bricks
and garbage, city garbage, we made up mysteries for ourselves and enacted stories, we made great adventures in
condemned houses, deserted garages, empty, scary warehouses, we broke into cars and churches, we trembled and
held hands, w e’d wrestle and w e’d fight, we were tender and
we were fierce; and then in alleys we would kiss each other a
hundred million times. Arthur was m y lover in m y heart, a
city lover, near to her. It made me lonely, what wasn’t rape; I
disappeared from him and grief washed over me pulling me
near to her. She’d died when someone did something, no one
would say what; but she was wild and strong, a man did
something and she took pills, a beautiful girl all the adults said;
it makes you lonely, what isn’t rape. He slept, and I left; lonely
twice; for both. Y ou can love som ebody once and som ebody,
a little, once. Then it ends and yo u ’re a sad, lonely girl, though
you don’t think about it much. After, the light would come,
slow; he’d be kissing m y hands.
F O U R
In February 1965
(Age 18)
I live in a funny kind o f silence, I have all my life, a kind o f
invisible bubble. On the streets I am quiet and there is quiet all
around and no one gets through, nothing, except for the wind
sometimes bellowing in my head an awful noise o f cold
weeping. I don’t look quiet but I am quiet. People don’t see
much so they don’t see how still I am. I see the people talking,
all the people o f every kind, throwing words at everything,
throwing words at each other, throwing words at time, sitting
over coffee throwing words, peaceful or shouting, smiling or
in pain, throwing words at anything they see, anything that
walks up to them or anything that gets in their w ay or trying
to be friendly throwing words at someone who doesn’t know
them. I don’t have words to throw back. When I feel
something no right words come or no one would know what
they mean. It would be like throwing a ball that could never be
caught. They act like words are cheap and easy as if they can
just be replaced after they are used up and as if they make
things all right. if I am caught in a situation so I have to, I say
