Marissa McNamara
Somewhere a Man is Thinking That They Is Who We (Hysterical Angry Hyperbolic) Are
somewhere a man is slapping
a bar an ass a laugh onto her face.
somewhere he drinks and does not fear
leaving the glass on the bar when he looks away
at the score at the waitress
at her short yellow or red or black skirt at the buttons
buttoned or unbuttoned on her white shirt and
when he walks home he can be lost in thought not
listening behind not
watching the shadows not
thanking God for the streetlights blinking on.
He walks with his keys in his pocket not
between his fingers like useless knives ready
for the could-be’s the her-faults does not
hold his phone to his ear pretend-laughing
making small sounds of uh-huh to an imaginary
caller he does not look down look away look up does not
avoid meeting others’ eyes does not
fear an other walking toward him in a polo or a button-down
or Armani shoes with tassles or a tie or cargo pants
or Levis–any number of shirts and colors and shoes
and he nods because he can because nowhere do these men
have to think they do not think do not think do not
quicken their step do not know not to turn and quick-glance behind
them do not wish they had worn their Nikes not
heels do not wish they had worn something
with tread as strong as tires. Somewhere these men enter
a party, slap other men on the back, stand with ice in glasses
or plastic cups or flasks or cans sweating in their hands and
watch the women to see who is swaying count the times
she tips her glass and swallows the men
know who has had enough to make her thighs
yoga-flexible alcohol-open like the doors the men open into the dark
or light or dusk or dawn because the doors are theirs
and the knobs twist for their hands and the hinges swing wide for them swing
into open spaces where their entry does not mean why were you there how
much did you drink why don’t you remember if it was so important why don’t you
remember the time the date how loud the music was as you left the room and walked out why don’t you remember who drove if this was so important if this was so important if this was so important how can you not know how many people were there who drove home and somewhere
a man enters
and no one cares which bedroom sidewalk curb alley car truck floor he uses
to walk over to lay above to enter behind to pump his presidential body into
like an automatic
riddling the body the body she the body
the body that she is and is not
the body of the unbuttoned animal before him
every time a man enters his places that are all his that are
all the places where he can always and forever say
his truth that is the truth always and forever and the truth is
that he can grab whatever pussy
he wants
every time men gather in their names
every time they come every time
they come they are somewhere
they belong every
time they come they
come they come
every time
Marissa McNamara‘s work has appeared in several publications, including the anthologies On Our Own and My Body My Words and the journals RATTLE, Assisi, Melancholy Hyperbole, StorySouth, Future Cycle, The Cortland Review, and Amsterdam Quarterly. She teaches English composition and creative writing at Georgia State University and in Georgia prisons. She is also a contributing poetry editor for The Chattahoochee Review.
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