What would you change—if you could go back, to that moment—the one in which your voice first felt its most insignificant?
I mean this to say:what if it mattered to me, how you felt in that moment— so much so that I would give my life to let you know?
I mean this to say: my sons will not put their hands on peoplewho have not asked for their hands—like in a community poolwhen a girl is fourteen and had not seen this boy since 6th grade;nor will my sons laugh at your daughter as she crieson the bench outside the pool becauseno one had ever touched her there beforeor because it didn’t stop when she said no, or no again;because it didn’t stop until she climbed out of the pool runningand because even after she did, not a single adult set their drink down.
Surely, had some words been spoken, this girl would feel less concern years later,when grabbing the hand of her partner at a wedding where they are the onlytwo women in love.
Years later their faces still lingerin the pool as you run,as people watch you run,as no one stops you from running,& years later when you see his name pop up online and there’s a photo of himwith kids and they’re his kids, you hope he teaches them both consent.
Photo by Immo Wegmann on Unsplash