Anna Drasko
ODE TO MY CROWBAR
My fork lives unfurled in my pocket.
Seven inches of pristine Alleghany steel.
Sometimes I strut to Stevie Wonder.
Sometimes I kiss the kaleidoscope.
Sometimes I make a meal and eat
a piece of buttered toast, cut with
my fork and a knife, when I can see it.
A world where you can nap
outside, the grass idyllic, inviting,
without waking to a man standing
over you with a crowbar, contemplating.
A world where you can leave
your door unlocked on a starry night
without waking to a man screaming
sadness sadness sadness on your staircase.
A world where you can jog
along the river, stretch your lungs and limbs,
without running away from a man hunting
you down, desperate for darkness in the day.
A world where you can walk
to a friend’s house to give a gift for grief,
without running away from a man shooting
up the block, sirens blaring in the background.
A world where you can read
in the park, a sweet story of struggle,
without hearing a man whistle
his unsettling attraction with a lascivious wink.
A world where you can lie
on the blanket under blue-pink sky
without hearing a man call
you words you call yourself in the morning mirror.
For now, I’ll keep the fork in my pocket,
a shard from my silverware set, crafted
by my Pap in the steel mills of Pittsburgh.
You never know when you’ll come across a slice
of cake and need to eat it. I have my fork,
a crowbar of sorts, and I’m not afraid to use it.
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