I started writing this poem when
Janet Kuypers
written 1/27/14, inspired from Vittorio Carli’s “Poem for Richard Blanco”
I started writing this poem when the umbilical cord was cut,
even though I should know better.
I was never close enough to you.
I started writing this poem when I scratched when I had the chicken pox.
I started writing this poem when I took the final swig of vodka
and reached for the bottle to pour myself another.
I started writing this poem when I found myself trying to make excuses.
I started writing this poem when I wiped the make-up off my eyelids
and wondered who I was trying to impress.
I started writing this poem when I met you, the man who rapes my sisters.
You, the man who rapes me.
I started writing this poem when I pulled out a fountain pen
and wrote ‘til my fountain pen ran dry.
I started writing this poem when the Pope gave a “thank you” to women who work
because we do more than our fair share
without fair pay, as we prove yourselves to who
over and over and over again.
I started writing this poem when I belched out loud, laughed too hard, swore too much
and grew up too fast.
I started writing this poem when I felt that feeling in my chest, right between my lungs,
like someone was pressing against the bone there,
right there, by your heart.
I started writing this poem when I looked at the clock. It was fifteen minutes
before I had to take another pill.
I started writing this poem when I realized that nothing changes,
and nothing stays the same.
I started writing this poem when you took my thoughts again,
shoved them into your mouth again
and spit them back at me again —
and you told me what I already know.
I started writing this poem when you rolled your sultry deep voice over me
like a wave of heat on a summer afternoon.
I started writing this poem when I felt that breeze, hot and sticky,
hit me in just the wrong way.
I started writing this poem when you needed a leader, so I stepped up to the plate.
You kept asking for a big brother
and I’m here to set you straight —
I started writing this poem when I knew who they were coming for.
I started writing this poem when I threw out into the open my screams, my cries for help
so much faster than I could before.
I started writing this poem when she said, when somebody eats one of you,
word gets around.
I started writing this poem when I found a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal.
I started writing this poem when I realized that somebody has to die for these.
I started writing this poem when the cuts into my hands dripped blood onto the street.
I started writing this poem when I’d walk down that street in the city again
and it looks look like a Quentin Tarantino movie
where everyone’s pointing guns at each other.
I started writing this poem when after years of putting the 9 mil to the line,
of knowing the base of the neck was the best place,
my only thought was: aim carefully.
I started writing this poem when the only choice we had
was to destroy ourselves.
I started writing this poem when I drizzled cream into my coffee,
watched it form a mushroom cloud
within that contained bomb,
when
you just died.
I started writing this poem when you took me into that casket with you,
where I felt the coldness of winter all around me,
and I heard them shoveling the dirt over my head.
I started writing this poem when I survived the blizzards, the hurricanes, the tornadoes.
I lived through the drought; I’ve survived it all —
I’ve even survived a near fatal blow
from humanity.
I started writing this poem when Dachau’s gas chambers worked every morning
as snow settled on ashes.
I started writing this poem when my mother died —
that’s when the forest fire started
and the whole forest burned down.
But
I started writing this poem when I had to get closer.
Because
I started writing this poem when the Universe was always expanding —
I needed to write
to fill in the ever expanding spaces.
I started writing this poem when all I could do was turn my fingers black
scouring the newspapers,
searching for the right words.
I started writing this poem when I wasn’t occupying Wall Street.
I just wanted to occupy your mind.
You see,
I started writing this poem when slamming my hands, my fingers against that keyboard
because there were too many atrocities in the world,
too many injustices that I had witnessed,
too many people who had wronged me —
and I had a lot of work to do.
I started writing this poem when there was a spirituality behind it.
It is something I do because I must,
and I could not exist any other way.
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