cabelo by Amy Shimshon-Santo

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cabelo

1.    

The phone chimes
New York is calling Los Angeles
“Mom, I have to tell you something”
— “something bad happened”

a man followed
her girlfriend home on the train
pushed inside the door of their apartment
pursued her down the hall
into the elevator

doors close

his breath bangs against the cube
two bodies shut inside a metal box

they levitate to the fifth floor
doors break open
he shoves her into the stairwell
and jerks down her pants

somewhere
between the ground
and the fifth floor
he gives her — a black eye

somewhere between the ground
and the fifth floor
he gives her — a concussion

something has been broken
—   something bad has happened

2.    

“don’t worry,” she says
“my mama-learning kicked in”
“there are reasons…to act crazy”

she’d buzzed her girlfriend in
and knew the time it took
to reach their door

she thundered down the hall
and found her lover crammed into a corner
beneath a shadow

ear-quake-shout
my Piscean girl became a fire sign
he dropped her lover’s body
squint-eyed
face-twitch
drop. Pivot. Sprint.
— he ran

she carried the weight
her girlfriend’s limp form
back to their room
and shut the door

3.
    
“have you gone outside yet?”
I ask her girlfriend
“once,” she says
dressed in layers for protection

I imagine her thin brown frame
fat as an egg, tottering
down broadway in manhattan
wearing every garment she owns

maybe she’d feel safer
if she wore extra underwear
pants, and shirts. maybe if she wore
more socks, jackets. a hat

may all the fibers of the world
the buttons and the zippers
conspire in her favor
to protect her from rape

4.

“I think I’ll cut off my hair, aunty,” her girlfriend says
“cut it”                        
               long pause . . .
                                  “let it fall”

her hair is shiny black
like a 1970s “breck girl” tv commercial
I learned this when she first
came to dinner
at the table, she tugged
the rubber band of her bun
shook her head in slow motion
from side to side
to release her pakistani-texan magic
into the room
each strand landed
perfectly placed
we laughed for her lucky hair
and ate our supper

now, she wants to remove
the tresses from her crown
above her bruised eye
she wants to be
unnoticed. invisible.

“she didn’t see herself
as a target of sexual assault,”
my son says “she saw herself
as one of the guys”

It didn’t matter how
she saw herself
butch or fem, queer as anyone
along the spectrum
it didn’t matter
to the rapist who saw her
as their prey

5.          

a dam breaks inside me
—   I swim out to my younger self
the girl who cut off
her own hair
dressed in black
occupied a punk rock habitat
a shark, gliding along
the bottom of the City of Los Angeles

age seven was the first
groping of my body
by a stranger
I’d learned to ride a bike
and was returning from
my first solo flight
to the corner store
the shame wouldn’t wash off

this poem is the place holder
for an encyclopedia of events
during each phase
of my existence in this body
risk covered 97%
of my earth’s surface

everywhere I went
in the body of a girl
everywhere I’ve gone
in the body of a woman
I have been at risk
and I am the lucky story
my children have always
been at risk
“not at risk,” a friend says
“at possibility”

I’ve never questioned
their innate possibilities
I have questioned
how their possibilities
will be received in this world

my daughter’s two-year old kepele
resting on a pillow
after a hard day at pre-school
“Mommy”
“Yes, Baby”
Katie says my skin’s
the color of poo-poo
clenched breath
shattered glass inside my chest

6.         

I make a movie on retribution
vengeance. a homemade flick
inside my head

cut: I fly through the clouds
like carmen san diego
black fedora hat
trench coat flapping in the wind

I sniff the doorframe
of my daughter’s apartment
for the assailant’s stench
and decode his exact hyper-location
with my chemo-sensory perception

cut: I navigate skyscrapers
one arm stretched out
guiding my
superhero-mother-body
through space

cut: my feet land softly
on the earth’s surface in queens
triggering a cloud of dust
a silver aura rises

cut: my head snaps right
his stink. I stride toward him
trench coat arms
swoosh-swoosh boots
landing loud
against the pavement

cut: I pull open the squeaky gate
pass the wild ivy to face him
moist with salty sweat
my elbow coils back
like an arrow
I take lightning aim

cut: I annihilate him with a wish
his cells disaggregate before me
bits and chunks. a pile of powder.

7.         

LA and NY
“shall I go there?” I ask my daughter
“yes, but I was thinking
of coming home…” she says
please. come. I buy a ticket.

three members of a family
—   mother, daughter, and son
gather beside the apricot tree
spread wide a cotton sheet

on the ground
a wooden stool
a small mirror
a pair of scissors

I wash my hands with rose water
and kneel before her

the trauma won’t evaporate
but she wants the hair to go

daughter’s head in mother’s hands
a sharp tool. gentle cropping

sister’s head in brother’s hands
low burr of an electric buzzer
sun illuminates the yard
and a pile of fear falls
severed beneath her
on the earth

she sits up, tall
blows confetti flecks of curl
from her face and hands

​

Amy Shimshon-Santo is a poly-lingual writer and educator (English, Spanish, Portuguese). She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in creative non-fiction (2017), Best of the Net in poetry (2018). Her writing has been published by Lady Liberty Lit, Zócalo Public Square, Yes Poetry, Awkward Mermaid Lit Mag, Rose Quartz Journal, Rag Queen, Full Blede, PCC Inscape Mag, ACIC, Spectrum, SAGE Publications, UC Press, SUNY Press, Public!: A Journal of Imagining America, Teaching Artist Journal, Tiferet Journal, and Critical Planning Journal. She can be reached at www.amyshimshon.com. Twitter: @amyshimshon  Instagram: @shimshona