I’ve heard there is a room where hooded
women enter, writing dates on the wall
with the torn edge of their finger. I’ve heard
you can cipher the numbers to bodies, to
the graceless edge of some men’s beds. Is
I’ve heard there is a room where hooded
women enter, writing dates on the wall
with the torn edge of their finger. I’ve heard
you can cipher the numbers to bodies, to
the graceless edge of some men’s beds. Is
this what you call justice? If so, why not
pull back the hood. They say the room locks
from the outside. Just wondering how you
got out? If you could show us, on your body.
For example, one man we publicly shamed.
He’s tied up in court, if you’re looking for press
credentials. How many women stand
in this room? Where do they piss and how
often? Can you comment on the man suing
your spokeswoman for slander? How close
was your body to his mouth? Did you choose
his name by lottery or straws? How will you
answer if you’re sued for this poem?
