Their minivans arrive at 7:45 a.m., the blue “Free Sonogram” van follows a white dove, wings arched to Heaven, painted on the door and they park directly across the street. They never pay the meters. Today, they have come with an extra car a dented red station wagon bearing out-of-state plates. We escorts watch as one, two … seven men crawl out of the backseat. Through patches of clouds, sunlight dapples the road and pigeons peck day-old bread from the sidewalk in front of the diner. Another Saturday morning at the women’s clinic. The men take turns on the microphone gospel and filth amplified to illegal decibels we are fornicators we are murderers we are Hitler’s ignorant fools. Up next one of the new guys tall, thin, bald, sharp facial angles & cavernous shadows eyes undead blue and when he preaches, he is articulate unlike the other screamers who bark about sinners and Jesus. Mid-morning, the patient-pool lags so the men want to engage. And we’re here in our neon pink escort vests. They walk up. We ignore them. But they are men who must be heard. My partner Lola has her hair in Pippi Longstocking braids and I focus on the elastic-tied ends as they surround us and the tall one is saying something about sin & sex & murder & Jesus. He asks if I know. . . I swat a fly buzzing near my face Do you know? my eyes water so Lola starts talking to me & her hands are flitting & I turn my back to him talk about birds weather the comeback of My Little Pony & it’s hot & it smells like garbage & sinners & Lola’s lips are so red & I don’t know what she’s saying [I think roller derby] & Jesus. & what the fuck am I saying? & all I see are her lips full. When he snakes his body around mine, I feel the moist heat of his breath on my neck as he whispers, You know, you’re a dirty girl. And last night your breath on my neck the bite took my breath away. . . And I’m choking on stuck words and there are patients coming. . . Your fingers laced my neck choking candlelight shadows my leg shaking. . . Do you know? Do you know? I know. I know I’m a dirty girl. This morning’s bitter coffee bubbles in the wicked cauldron of my gut and I swallow I have to hold it down because there are patients trying to cross the street and I need to escort them wearing my pink vest I stop traffic tires screech bile burns my throat. And it’s loud & it’s hot & it’s hard to breathe. . . Somewhere in me a city’s on fire. And those undead eyes are watching. Later, he sits next to me on the stone half-wall my legs dangle over the edge, his firmly planted and from the Snapware container I take to school every morning, I offer him an unwashed grape the fruit firm, green newly ripe. After the shift, I drive home. And shower. And crawl into bed. & dream

Poets Resist is published by Glass Poetry Press.
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