Dear you, who have so many men to tell you
that women should feel sorry for not giving
them what they want,
Dear you, who are tired,
Dear you, who believe them,
Dear you, who will not be allowed words, but he
will want the mouth that makes them,
Dear you, who does not speak when he shuffles into you,
Dear you, who are stuffed real full, real good, too good
for talk, he says,
Dear you, who feels how he holds fire to you, how
much it burns, how much it is not part of
you,
Dearest you, who burns,
Dear you, who he wants to break apart and
make you stay that way,
Dear you, who are sturdy like the cliffs edging the sea,
shaped by tides such as these,
Dear you, who are cavernous, molded in water and sand–
a garden of gemstone,
Dear you, who are flame and burn, leak danger out
of every part of you,
Dearest woman, you, who is not the smoke emitted
after the gunshot, no, you are the bullet.
Alicia Granger is a 22 year old poet, recently graduated with an English degree from Towson University, and living in Baltimore. One day she either wants to be David Bowie, a creative writing professor, or a time traveler. Two of those things are possible.