A poem for Kavanaugh and the other men like him

Sources have told reporters that the GOP leadership is concerned about all the open anger from women circulating about the Kavanaugh nomination and the way they are dismissing, minimizing, and flat out blowing off the allegations against him of sexual assault. They're fearful that the Republican party will pay a steep price at the ballot box for their open acceptance of rape and sexual assault--and downright stunned at the fierce reaction of women. Who knew this was such a sensitive issue?

https://www.newsweek.com/brett-kavanaugh-accuser-testimony-damaging-republicans-1127225

https://www.politicususa.com/2018/09/19/republicans-fear-kavanaugh-sex-allegations-will-hurt-them-in-midterms.html

https://www.esquire.com/news-politics/politics/a23318062/brett-kavanaugh-hurt-republicans-midterm-elections/

Twitter and Facebook are full of women telling of their own stories of assault at a young age that are much like Dr. Blasey Ford's and of the pain, fear, shame, and lasting damage they've endured. Other women are trying to comfort and support them. And yes, we're filled with rage.

Here's a poem of my own to explain to these men what they're dealing with and what they've unleashed.

CONFESSION

is good for the soul, they tell us,

but what of the body, pressed

into service against its will but lacking

ability to say no, being female

and young and poor and only

“some little half-breed girl,

you know what they're like,

born fucking,” implicit permission

of the white man's imagination?

Backed into corners, pulled into alleys,

too small, body still growing,

to put up a good fight against grown-man muscle,

coming away with bruises, black eyes, broken

jaw one time, but fighting hard and blind spitting crazy

enough to make it not worth their while

to consummate. The refuse-to-remember first time

taught that fear-backed rage, that cunning

need to find anything at hand to inflict pain,

make them stop, lamp, end table, chair, boom box,

teeth to arm, stomp on instep, kick to groin.

Grown now, safe, heavy, elder,

if my surroundings smell wrong,

they suddenly flick me back—old, bad,

dangerous times. I forget I'm not small

and powerless. Fury fills my veins, and eyes

search for something to transform into weapon,

whole body throbbing with desire

to punish, inflict pain, drive off, destroy.

I walk through the world, a quiet lie.

Such dark lives within me

like a hidden serpent, rage-dragon,

while I politely order tea.