Rigby Bendele
Rigby Bendele is a third year student at Longwood University. In addition to studying poetry and
English literature, she works as a resident assistant during the school year and a camp counselor
during the summer.
English literature, she works as a resident assistant during the school year and a camp counselor
during the summer.
List
A year and a half after I broke my silence,
my mother broke hers,
sending me a list of ways to protect myself
from rape at college.
Don’t drink.
Don’t talk to strangers.
Don’t dress as you want.
Don’t go strange places.
Don’t ever make yourself vulnerable.
Nothing about
not following your best friend
to the fort you built last week
surrounded by fresh-fallen leaves and nestled
in a crevice where only
your ten-year-old body can sit.
Or what to do when you find yourself
pinned in what you think
is letting him win at wrestling,
only to find your shoulder blades
dug into twig-twinged dirt
his hands on the balls of your shoulders
his breath on your neck,
lips curled into a young moon,
not enough space for words
but enough to rattle
mixing the smell of fish from lunch,
leaf mold going to perfume —
your entire body wilting
not wanting to feel that moment
just waiting for
that way he looks at you
when he’s grown bored,
rolling his eyes
and drawling as to a jury of trees
You know, you wanted it.
A year and a half after I broke my silence,
my mother broke hers,
sending me a list of ways to protect myself
from rape at college.
Don’t drink.
Don’t talk to strangers.
Don’t dress as you want.
Don’t go strange places.
Don’t ever make yourself vulnerable.
Nothing about
not following your best friend
to the fort you built last week
surrounded by fresh-fallen leaves and nestled
in a crevice where only
your ten-year-old body can sit.
Or what to do when you find yourself
pinned in what you think
is letting him win at wrestling,
only to find your shoulder blades
dug into twig-twinged dirt
his hands on the balls of your shoulders
his breath on your neck,
lips curled into a young moon,
not enough space for words
but enough to rattle
mixing the smell of fish from lunch,
leaf mold going to perfume —
your entire body wilting
not wanting to feel that moment
just waiting for
that way he looks at you
when he’s grown bored,
rolling his eyes
and drawling as to a jury of trees
You know, you wanted it.
This Isn’t California
Catherine’s 16, so 16
that she’s not afraid
to whine about the snow.
Yeah, she sighs, school’s out
but what does it matter?
Sabrina, her girlfriend, two hours
away, the roads are ice
and Daddy won’t let
her drive.
He would never
let her drive
if he knew
of feather-light touches,
touches that she’s not afraid
to show in public, hands grasped,
not seeing the eyes
of her Daddy’s friends
watching from booths, on shelves,
in coat racks, in a plastic flower
on a McDonald’s table, seeing hands
grasped beneath Formica.
I wish I was 16
and not afraid,
not watching my shoulder,
empty from fear
Farmville, like Montpelier,
would answer two hands,
lips, breasts, long hair,
with glares and tutting of teeth,
just-overheard comments
that this isn’t California,
comments that make me slunch
in my skin and dig into my pockets.
That I didn’t need to whisper
“Be Sneaky,”
like some commandment
of how to survive,
how to avoid seeing
someone that doesn’t know
at the movies or dinner,
as you wonder if you broke
that law, that instinct
that at 16 doesn’t exist
except as the nagging
of someone who was 16
and didn’t know —
Be Sneaky.
Catherine’s 16, so 16
that she’s not afraid
to whine about the snow.
Yeah, she sighs, school’s out
but what does it matter?
Sabrina, her girlfriend, two hours
away, the roads are ice
and Daddy won’t let
her drive.
He would never
let her drive
if he knew
of feather-light touches,
touches that she’s not afraid
to show in public, hands grasped,
not seeing the eyes
of her Daddy’s friends
watching from booths, on shelves,
in coat racks, in a plastic flower
on a McDonald’s table, seeing hands
grasped beneath Formica.
I wish I was 16
and not afraid,
not watching my shoulder,
empty from fear
Farmville, like Montpelier,
would answer two hands,
lips, breasts, long hair,
with glares and tutting of teeth,
just-overheard comments
that this isn’t California,
comments that make me slunch
in my skin and dig into my pockets.
That I didn’t need to whisper
“Be Sneaky,”
like some commandment
of how to survive,
how to avoid seeing
someone that doesn’t know
at the movies or dinner,
as you wonder if you broke
that law, that instinct
that at 16 doesn’t exist
except as the nagging
of someone who was 16
and didn’t know —
Be Sneaky.