In the brain I met someone feminist. I took this person to a cafe and

read her an Audrey Lorde essay. In the brain I sang the heart’s song

about motherhood and teaching my daughter Plath and nights of
spooning in bed. In the bed I let the brain undress. I left the brain

undressing and in its blue I saw my mother rage, I let Steinem yell at

me, I dressed my daughter in full length tights. Despite the summer.

Despite the brain. Despite the feminist brain he could push open my

thighs or was it his fingers on my waist in passing. In passing through

the hallway he spat a slur about my ass having a brain of its own. Was

it curvy or firm, rounded or doughy, fleshy. Does the cushioning of

pelvic bone, skin, cheeks and eyes pushed down upon a bed, make a

noise? In the brain there is noise and there is someone feminist. In the

bed there is silence. There is so much about silence I don’t know yet.
Does silence like to be spooned? Omitting, revising, humoring are on

the guest list to gobble up pain in bite sized portions. In the brain I

remember to forget the number of strokes, his hand a hammer, his

hand pressing down the back of my head, cerebellum. A structure that

coordinates balance. In the brain, a tightrope I make her cross. In the

brain I am in control. Do you ever have thoughts of harming yourself,

she asks.