What She Didn’t
She had known him half her life,
but not very well,
not like friends.
And that night she went with him to a club,
but not really with him,
with him and their posse;
and there they talked and touched, even kissed,
but it didn’t mean anything,
just that she was having fun.
He drove her home but she didn’t invite him;
he just came in,
and she didn’t send him away.
He kissed her and she laughed it off
and pushed him away,
but not hard;
then he threw her down and raped her,
and she said no, no, no —
but she didn’t scream.
When he was done, she made him leave
and started running a bath
even before the door shut.
Next day, late, he called to apologize,
said it wasn’t like him
and she promised not to tell.
She felt better, glad it was over,
though her hands trembled
as she folded the phone.
Later she called a hairdresser,
saying she wanted it short,
but didn’t keep the appointment.
A man she liked had tickets to a concert.
She told him she’d love to
but couldn’t make herself go.
Instead she sat by the koi pond in the park,
watching streaks of gold
mouth the surface of the water.