Audacity

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Audacity Page 15

by Melanie Crowder

into arguments.

  I lift the mirror to my eyes

  wipe specks of black grit

  onto the pristine cloth,

  wipe the day’s slander

  from my cheeks.

  so easy

  Does a bone break easier

  on a cold autumn day

  when leaves crunch under boot heels

  and frost forms

  on anything

  that stands still, even for a moment?

  If they strike me today,

  will my bones shatter

  like an icicle

  falling from a rooftop

  smashing against the ground?

  In the summer,

  I felt strong as an ox

  dragging the plow behind me,

  carving the way to a better life.

  Now I am the chaff

  left behind

  covered in hoar:

  brittle

  exposed

  so easy to break.

  fresh

  Worry

  is getting in the way

  of Joe’s smile.

  He notices

  though I try not to wince

  or whimper

  if I take a wrong step

  if I bump against

  the fresh bruises

  on my shoulders,

  he notices

  how much

  how often

  those gorillas hurt me.

  I cannot stop now

  so what is the point

  of saying,

  I am worried,

  too.

  fists

  Every night has a sound.

  Some nights

  it is a muted lullaby

  seeping through a crack

  in a street-side window

  that keeps time with my steps.

  Some nights

  it is the papery whispers

  of bat wings swooping

  between buildings.

  Some nights

  it is the calm

  quiet

  of glittering stars.

  Once I even heard an owl hooting—

  what could an owl want

  in this falling-down forest

  of tenements?

  But the sound of this night

  is footsteps.

  And not only mine.

  First it was one set

  stepping out from the shadows

  falling in

  following

  behind me.

  Then a second

  set of footsteps,

  heavier

  faster

  closing in.

  I whip around

  to face their fists

  to throw my own

  in return.

  They do not speak

  but their message is

  painfully

  clear

  slap scratch

  punch pummel

  kick kick spit

  until the only sound

  is footsteps running away

  blood dripping

  pooling

  on pavement.

  Gorky

  I wake in a cot

  at the hospital,

  bandages swaddling

  my head.

  I turn

  toward the wan light

  from the single, high window

  above me.

  My vision is blurred,

  sleep-slurred

  a small

  feathered

  body

  stirs,

  shakes its wings,

  lifts off the windowsill.

  After Mama and Papa have gone,

  Joe

  sits on the edge of my cot.

  He pulls a slim volume

  from his breast pocket

  and begins to read:

  Over the gray plain of the sea

  winds are gathering the storm-clouds

  Between the thunder and the sea

  proudly soars the stormy petrel,

  a streak of sable lightning

  Now his wing the wave caresses,

  now he rises like an arrow

  cleaving clouds

  and crying fiercely

  I fall asleep again

  tears wetting the pillow

  beneath my bruised head.

  visitors

  Nathan comes to visit,

  clears his throat once,

  twice.

  I reach out a hand

  and a smile;

  he takes it

  sets a pair of library books

  on the table beside my hospital bed

  with a smile for me, too.

  Benjamin trails in behind him

  presses a clouded blue orb

  into my palm

  nestles in

  beside me.

  By the second week

  I can sit up,

  read for a few minutes

  at a time,

  talk a little to the reporters

  who line my bedside,

  practice the twist

  and flick

  of thumb and wrist,

  sending Benjamin’s marble

  rolling across

  the hummocks and canyons

  of the coarse hospital

  blanket.

  I measure my health

  each day

  not by the doctor’s consultation

  but by the breadth

  of Joe’s smile.

  electric

  The whole city is alive tonight.

  Pauline wheels me to the hospital window

  to a view of the sidewalks below

  crammed with people

  marveling

  at Mr. Edison’s incandescent bulbs

  marching rank and file

  across bridges

  under arches

  to the tops of towers

  touching the sky.

  Even a huge harvest moon

  seems pale tonight.

  Just think,

  Pauline says,

  if thousands of tiny lights

  can outshine the moon,

  is there anything

  thousands of us

  cannot do?

  suffrage

  The morning of my last day

  in the hospital

  when I wake from a nap

  the foot of my bed is lined with women

  who have the same

  hawk’s gaze

  that I see in the mirror

  each morning.

  They did not come looking for a victim

  for a charity case

  they came looking for a soldier

  a compatriot

  a comrade.

  They, who fight for votes

  we, who fight for rights

  may be fighting

  the same battle

  after all.

  holiday

  The union gives me light work

  my first day out of the hospital.

  Pauline and I sit

  on a pair of cushioned chairs.

  A banner stretches

  between us;

  we stitch one letter at a time

  W E S H A L L F I G H T U N T I L W E W I N

  drifting gradually

  to the center.

  She pulls the needle

  out from between her lips

  and says,

 
When this is all over

  let’s take a holiday

  in the country.

  You can bring your Joe,

  she says,

  I will bring my Frieda.

  We will eat grapes

  and soft cheeses

  nap like ladies of leisure

  in meadows stitched

  with wildflowers

  while silly birds

  with no real business at hand

  twitter and flit

  above us.

  starve quick

  My first day back

  on the picket line

  a reporter

  asks a question

  then puffs breaths into his hands

  to keep them warm enough

  to scratch the pencil across

  his steno pad.

  Why do you do this?

  he asks.

  Isn’t it better to make some money

  in the shop

  than to make nothing

  out here

  marching in the snow

  dodging insults and billy clubs?

  We keep moving

  to stay warm

  tossing answers

  over our shoulders.

  We will starve either way.

  They will harass us either way.

  If our only choice is to starve quick

  or starve slow,

  we choose quick.

  No wonder,

  he says with a laugh,

  no wonder they call you

  a pint

  of trouble.

  together

  At the end of a long day

  at the union office,

  a familiar

  hopeful smile

  beneath an off-kilter flat cap

  waits for me

  to walk with me

  to my night class.

  Joe

  has no interest

  in English classes

  and yet

  he is here.

  The gorillas may hide

  around any corner

  and yet

  he is here.

  When I am with him,

  I can feel my spine

  unbowing,

  the weight stacked

  on my slight shoulders

  sloughing off.

  My breath trips

  my heart flips into my throat,

  but I remember that word

  with its bars and barbs

  [wife]

  I see the same

  wariness

  in his eyes.

  This thing

  that pulls us together

  frightens us both

  and yet

  he is here.

  We walk

  on cobbled streets,

  updrafts of air

  pulling away the space

  between us

  until our shoulders

  brush together

  with each step.

  gorillas

  We pace two by two

  in front of the door,

  huddled together

  to break the freezing rain,

  singing,

  our breath streaming behind us

  like clouds trailing behind

  a steam engine:

  As we come marching, marching

  we bring the greater days,

  the rising of the women

  means the rising of the race!

  I hear the footsteps coming

  from a block away.

  Stand fast, girls!

  I shout.

  That is all I can get out

  before I am driven to my knees

  by a fist in the gut.

  I am gasping

  to draw

  a single

  breath—

  I do not even feel

  the blows to my chin

  and cheek

  all I can think is

  I

  can

  not

  breathe

  the girls are screaming

  clawing at the thugs

  with their bare hands.

  By the time my breath returns,

  the police are dragging me

  toward the back of the wagon.

  They throw us inside

  and bolt the door.

  Pauline and I reach out

  clasp hands

  in the darkness.

  farbrente

  I am little more

  than five feet tall

  but my will

  is like leaping flames

  vaulting skyward

  immune to all

  that would

  smother me.

  judgment

  The Jefferson Market Courthouse

  on Sixth Avenue

  is a forgery of a Gothic castle;

  its aristocratically sloped roofs

  and grand spiraling stair

  ill suited

  to render justice

  to those of us who toil

  in the muck and muddle

  of this mean life

  below.

  My shirtwaist is rumpled

  untucked

  I can feel the new scab

  at my temple

  opening

  and I only hope

  it does not bleed

  down my cheek

  drip

  on the only thing

  I have to wear

  to the picket line tomorrow.

  In the courtroom,

  we stand

  hands clasped behind our backs

  chins thrust up;

  defiant.

  Does the magistrate

  behind his hallowed bench

  know the punishment that waits for me

  within the walls

  of my own home—

  how Mama’s lips

  pinch together,

  how Papa will not look me in the eyes

  anymore?

  Does he not understand

  that

  is punishment enough?

  The magistrate steeples his fingers

  like a man in prayer

  You are striking

  against God and Nature,

  whose law is that

  man

  shall earn his bread

  by the sweat

  of his brow.

  You are on strike against God!

  If you ask me,

  God knows

  what little bread we get

  is nothing close

  to what we have earned

  for all that

  sweat.

  too much

  For the first time

  they hold me overnight

  in jail;

  I sleep on a bed of wooden slats

  where at least

  my skirt hangs free

  of the rats that scrabble

  in the corners.

  In the morning, bail is paid by society ladies

  sent by the union to scold our jailers

  and set us free.

  Outside, the sun is too bright

  to open my eyes fully.

  I shuffle blindly home.

  One look

  and the worry

  drains from Mama’s face.

  She sets the kettle on the stove

  pulls the washbasin into the bedroom

  beckons me to
sit

  on the corner of the bed.

  She unbuttons my shoes

  lifts my shirt over my head

  helps me step out of my skirt.

  In the absence of words

  her hands give voice

  to the things

  she cannot say

  out loud.

  She fills the basin

  places a rag and a round of soap in my hand

  before backing away

  closing the door behind her,

  before the sorrow in her eyes

  can spill onto her cheeks.

  Goose bumps rise on my arms and legs

  as I shed the last layer

  step into the water,

  steam curling up my

  bruised

  swollen skin.

  The girls have been disappearing.

  Condemned to the workhouse prison

  on Blackwell’s Island.

  Every day

  I am sure

  I will not come home

  at all.

  But for me?

  Bruise

  break

  arrest

  release

  each time.

  I have been here before,

  felt the horror

  and the relief

  when they loosed their holy vengeance

  on the town next to mine

  and I was free

  to escape.

  The shame is

  too much

  too much.

  I crouch in the bottom of the basin

  quivering

  my breath choking

  on the steam

  on the pent-up

  release

  of relief.

  picnic

  Dusk has turned to dark,

  the papers

  membership cards

  banners

  picket signs

  all put away for the night.

  I just have time

  to hurry home for a glass of milk

  to keep my stomach quiet

  for the night ahead.

  I pull on my coat

  mittens

  hat

  scarf,

  the door feels

  uncommonly heavy

  as I push it open

  against

  the biting wind.

  I do not set

  even a step outside

  before

  Joe

  ushers me back inside

  out of the cold,

  his flat cap

  tilted to shield the wind

  from his face,

  his lips curling upward

  as if they hope

  to be given a reason

  to smile.

  The door slips through my fingers,

 

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