When I Visit Emily Dickinson's Grave
by Emmalee Hagarmanit is possible to forget June
sun, blister blood, sweat stinging
my ankles, and reach
across the black gate to touch her
tombstone if I want. Girls
take selfies beside the lilacs
and little notes above Emily’s
name, send to moms. Are you
all good? Forget the old
man who takes off his
shirt, covers a grave and punches
it, hard as he can, beside me.
His grief. The world
tells me in so many ways
it was my fault: a woman
walking across creaky floorboards
in Amherst’s bookstore says,
“No one could sneak up
on you in here, huh?” How
could you let this happen?
Anything’s a trigger—blue
Gatorade at the gas station, the
kind the nurse made me
drink after taking Plan B.
A man who does not
let go of my hand after
he shakes it. The night
I was raped, blood
seeped through my jeans
as I walked back
to my room. Are you all
good? he asked as he zipped
up his pants and he meant it,
if I remember right. If
I stand under cold water
long enough for my blue
fingers to forget they
held his minutes before he
held me down on the bed.
When a man tells me Life
doesn’t give you trigger
warnings, I bite my cheek hard
enough to draw blood
trying not to ask, what happens
if I forget? What happens
at night, when I hear the door
knob of my hotel room jiggle,
the thud of a body trying
to get inside? When I throw
open the door, the drunk
girl who thinks this is her
room jumps when she sees
the look on my face.