On the hearing of Christine Blasey Ford and the days after.

You are correct that I hold
my trauma in my belly, fists
clenched over it, protecting
what I can’t tell. It’s true
that my memories blurred,
that I know the place like I 
still sit in it, but not the month,
that it may have been fall, 
that I was twenty-two or 
maybe twenty-one. I know 
exactly how his mouth 
quirked up like he was pleased, 
but not what I did the rest 
of that day. I, like her, almost,
not quite. I didn’t scream.
I am not victim enough
for you, not ruined completely. 

You ask why I never told 
my mother, never breathed
it to my father; I’ll tell you:
I watched my hometown  cheer
the president as he mocked her
memory imperfect as mine.
They defended the right 
of the man to be believed, 
called the woman liar in the same 
breath. My mother got angry
at me for pointing at her 
neighbors. I'll say: I have no home.
I have no family to tell.  Go on,
I know you’ve been waiting:
ask me what I was wearing.

ANNA SANDY-ELROD is a PhD student studying poetry at Georgia State University. She is the current Editor in Chief of New South and Managing Editor of Muse/A. Her work can be found in the Santa Ana River Review, Nightjar Review, the Indianapolis Review, North American Review, Bone Bouquet, and others. She lives in Atlanta with her husband and three cats.

ISSN: 1533 2063