The ice is finally melting
and the temperature forecast is above 50.
As a young woman, I hand in my jeans
for a nice pair of shorts.
A nice pair of shorts that I question
for while I know the temperature is
above 50, above 60, even above 70,
that nice pair of shorts will feel like ice.
They will constrict my legs,
forcing my blood to pool above my waist
as my body reddens from their comments.
My legs pale as they understand
what they imply about my worth.
The ice that encases my legs soon encages
my heart,
it freezes over when too many eyes
outnumber mine.
That ice travels through my veins up to my brain,
sends a signal to my arms, tell my hands
hold my keys tightly.
It signals my shoulders to squeeze themselves
a size smaller as I shrink.
That message relays to my chest
sink on yourself—maybe they won’t notice you that way.
The signal attempts to relay to my legs and feet
to walk faster, start jogging as if you’re late somewhere
(not too fast or you’ll gather more attention),
pretend you’re practicing for a marathon,
start running, just please, do something.
But the ice restricting my legs will not let the signal through.
The signal I send to shatter the shards of
ice behind my eyes and smile will not go through.
And the signal I send to my throat
to dislodge the iceberg taking residence—to swallow it
and let sound free—
is not going through.
Instead, my eyes shine with unshed fear and frost
while my smile is frozen
and my throat is blocked.
And the icy tears don’t come
And the icecap in my smile doesn’t melt
And the ice sinks my screams so they don’t come
And I see my life shatter and my hopes and dreams won’t come
And the speed I’m praying for is frozen and won’t thaw so it doesn’t come
And help doesn’t come.
I was wearing those nice pair of shorts, I must have been asking for it.
The ice is finally melting
and the temperature forecast is above 50.
As a young woman, I hand in my ice pair of shorts
for my safety and a pair of jeans.
