3 Poems
Alex DiFrancesco
Alex DiFrancesco (they/them) is the author of Psychopomps, All City, and Transmutation. They are a 2022 recipient of Ohio Arts Council’s Individual Excellence Award, as well as the first transgender finialist in over 80 years of the Ohioana Book Awards. They currently live in Philadelphia with their West Highland Terrier, Roxy Music, Dog of Doom
BOOK LINKS:
https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/671729/transmutation-by-alex-difrancesco/
https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/605233/all-city-by-alex-difrancesco/
When the Detective Comes to My Front Porch
My doormat says Come Back With A Warrant. I hide it before the detective comes. I sign away all my protected privacies from speaking to my therapist. The detective asks where I work and when I answer he mentions a beer and donut pairing place across the street. I talk with the advocate for ten minutes about my favorite donuts in town while the detective says nothing, maybe wondering, like I am, what he’s gotten himself into. The doormat says You are a hypocrite you are a failure you are talking to the police the police are on your porch you are talking to them like friends. I mention that one of the women who my rapist has abused has agreed to be part of the investigation. The advocate is a different person this time, a white woman who looks like a cop, too. The doormat raises a cry. You call yourself an anarchist you tried so many ways you stuck to nothing you are a hypocrite you are a failure. I wanted him to apologize I wanted him to get therapy I wanted him to see the wake of destruction in his drive to end his own life I wanted this to be okay I would have taken the apology and arm wrestled the rest of the aggression out really I would have I would have had a fistfight outside one of the readings we both go to I would have wrestled the remaining anger into the muddy spring night a stormcloud settling into the atmosphere it could have been better for both of us. The detective looks relieved as I change the subject from donuts. He has been trained to make small talk, to make people comfortable. I am not comfortable. There are wraps and gloves and a heavy bag on my porch and maybe he wonders why someone would rape someone who could throw a punch. The doormat says All those times you said Fuck The Police screaming in the streets and holding cells. They leave and I walk inside. The doormat has fallen silent. We have both said enough.
While the Famous Defamation Trial Goes On
If he can’t remember it, he didn’t do it. The famous man, that is. If he was too drunk to get his dick hard, he must not have shown it to his best friend’s girlfriend. The not-famous man, that is. If he was too drunk it was her fault. The famous man, that is. Why is she always pushing him? The famous man, that is. She’s mentally ill. The famous woman that is. You’re mentally ill. Me, that is. A personality disorder, everyone knows that’s the bad kind of sick. If she was abused, why wouldn’t she have said something sooner? If she was abused, why would she have sent him all those text messages? Why did you send him all those text messages? His friends have already sent you emails you sent him, to prove you are a liar. Me, that is. If he can’t remember it, he didn’t do it. His best friend stopped speaking to him because you accused him of rape, not because he showed his girlfriend his penis. He does not remember that. If he can’t remember it, he didn’t do it. The famous man, that is. The not-famous man, that is. If they are monsters, all they have to do is forget; it never happened. All the men, that is. She shit in his bed, you know. The famous man’s, that is. I am barely human, as it is. Every day, I grow less so.
Responsible
Found Poem from Sarah Polley’s Memoir
Exploding bombs, space, moonwalking. It would all be perfectly safe, I was told. I couldn’t breathe. There was chaos. How lightly my safety and sense of security had been taken. It’s hard to calculate whether they were worth the price of hell. The out of control mad white male. It was hard for me to see how responsible ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ was. I am struck by how many times I told him I don’t hold him responsible. It was hopeless for me to imagine him taking responsibility. .
