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WAITING FOR THE LIGHT TO CHANGE
So I'm walking down the street after parking my car in Davis Square,
About to hop the T to the Central Square World's Fair,
Where I have been asked to read a poem,
When a car whizzes by me and a man yells into the air,
"TITTIES!"
And it just hangs there.
This instantly makes me. want him.
My sandals are miraculously transformed into three-inch stiletto spikes,
My jeans become a short, black leather mini-skirt,
And my white T-shirt that was slightly tight but not obscene,
Shrinks to just above my belly-button.
I am no longer wearing a bra.
I turn and tear after him.
I find him stopped at a light.
Yank open the driver's side door,
Throw him down and have my way with him.
Which, for the practical purposes of this poem, means
No foreplay, no condoms, and I come in 30 seconds.
But really.
"Titties!" hangs in the air next to my head,
Surrounds me like a shroud.
A childhood voice echoes in my head,
"You look like a slut!"
I feel like a slut.
Until I remember that I didn't actually do anything
Except stride down the street with a comfortable gait
That sprung surprisingly out of this grim, gray morning.
I have recently begun to consider the possibility
That I never actually did look like a slut.
I have hidden myself well over the years,
Did not stand straight and tall,
Did not show my curves, or my strengths.
In fact, I believe I have always looked restrained.
All these thoughts from the call, "Titties!" out a car window.
And then, again, the other day,
McGrath Highway,
4:15 pm sun streaming in the car window.
I find myself stopped at a light next to two young men.
Again. "Hey baby, what's your name?"
I turn. Look at them directly.
Shake my head, look away.
"Baby! What's the matter? You don't know your name?!"
I used to have fantasies of killing men like those.
Torturing them brutally, teaching them before they died that
Angry women were a force of nature to be reckoned with,
I was not to be disrespected.
But now,
Now I know those are men
Who will never know a woman like me,
And I wonder where those other men are,
Who will raise their daughters in my image.
I'm still waiting for that light to change.
- Samantha Libby Sodickson