electricity kerry seems i just can’t outwit you, can’t outsmart you, can’t outrun you. i think i’m on top--i swept out the cobwebs, locked the door but i turn around and there you are, like a spectre laughing at me i skip down the stairs to the subway, down the winding hall, scan my keycard, i’m following the rules, but maybe that’s the problem--am i too easy for you to find? spinning, ears full of wind, i collapse onto a metal bench, holding my head in my hands. on the platform i listen to water dripping onto the tracks, the rats scurrying in the shadows, and i lean back against the cool tile wall, thinking you motherfucker i’m more afraid of you than any man lurking in the gloom, any goblin-junky, at least i can see them coming--pop up the collar on my peacoat, look straight ahead, keep walking quickly. i know how to get around, the stench underground and the garbage and the wildness of the city doesn’t phase me anymore. there are witnesses everywhere, and it seems somehow safer than the pitch black of the countryside. i could vanish without a sound. but you--cities, small towns, a long stretch of road with nothing in sight but landscape, you aren’t picky, find me anywhere you’re tapping me on the shoulder, nudging me in the ribs, trotting behind me, whispering grotesque poetry into my ears. you don’t care who’s around, it’s like you take pleasure in my vulnerability i curl up on the floor dreading your demands after it’s over, very carefully very quietly i sit up and put my head on my knees as if making too much noise might bring you back. i’m tired of being so soft and malleable tired of this skull like a colander tired of your mockery and humiliation tired of the heavy armor 211107 ... tender_square (i've read this ten times now and my breath still catches at that ending. the exhaustion and fear are palpable, as is the physicality of place and body. i love the dichotomy between city and country explored here, kerry.) 211108 ... kerry (thank you, tender_square. i'm glowing) 211109 ... kerry if you’ve never had one you cannot fully understand or imagine it; i try to explain and i run out of words, but there aren’t enough–not in the language i speak, anyway. mom had two ancient conch shells in our house, one on the mantel and one on a bookshelf. the shell on the bookshelf was old and crumbling to dust, but the other one was still bone-white and smooth, a slick pink tongue spiraling inside. i used to put it to my ear to hear the ocean and wonder, could i live in here? and will i ever find myself on a beach with a scavenged conch in hand? i do find them now, i suppose, though they are invisible. the waves crash hard and brutal like in depoe bay where the foam is the color of the sky and you can hear the sea even standing behind a glass window. i would rather be standing on the cliffs at depoe bay than on a sidewalk on a sunday night, sitting on a step with my head on my knees and my right arm doing–what? ghosts are pulling on it, shaking it like a wet dog, peeling my fingers away from my palm. it twists and shakes and burns, drenched in scalding ghost-water, and i press my forehead harder on my jeans. even as the waves subside and my hand is mine again, the dark is so dark, so quiet, no cars. i stare into the black, then remember to practice what phil taught us in our trauma class: i press my hands to the concrete, try to feel grounded. i tell myself: these are my knees it is sunday, december 5, 2021 i am on passyunk ave in philadelphia it is dark and quiet my name is kerry i am 34 years old the concrete is scratchy against my hands the tip of my nose is cold i am really here. 211207 what's it to you? who go blather from