Procession

Rape grabs you mid-day, while sitting at a classmate’s kitchen table. It singes your gut the way hot soup splatters, angry at ice cubes. You freeze mid-sentence; drop your gaze to the glass table. When asked, you say: the meal calloused your tongue. Later, you make a wrong turn driving home. The highway swallows you, no exit for miles. You panic when a fog moves in and covets the window shield, your sight. Struggling, you fight with buttons on the dash that offer a too-slow solution to your fear. Rape laughs, whispering, I’m still here.

You gulp down the second half of your raspberry martini before the band starts. The buzz sends you where you need to go. Eyes closed, you shake your head like a dog after rain, turn to new friends and confess you have an ex— a girl. A hand squeezes your shoulder and assures you: they’re still here. Together, you dance, faithful to the bass’s groove. It’s just body parts.

In her office, your therapist holds up a square pillow because you are shivering and wet-faced. Her softness instructs: transfer the images to the cushion, a TV screen. You watch her hand decide to lightly touch your pumping knee. Her eyes find yours; bring them back to the room. You’re here, she says. Still here.