It wasn’t meant to happen. Like a knife
that slips through bread
and into the first joint of your finger.
I was a woman in a dress and pearls.
My footing sure, the front of me
so carefully put together.
And this was a block of firmly closed doors.
Lawn after lawn, the green rectangles
going on forever. No razor wire
or stagnant gutters anywhere. No one ahead,
but one man moving toward me.
It was a summer afternoon. I’d been looking away,
studying the dead air beside me. We should
have passed like two bars of light,
but he grabbed my skirt and threw it
up over my shoulders.
Then, like a scene in a painting
that takes place half in the sky, I am where I am
and at the same time, locked out of my body.
I must have known this was nothing,
that worse went on within those walls.
That smear of sounds, only a record started wrong,
something torn. For I stood there, hushed,
like a tree with fire at its heart.