"Here in 2018, twenty years later, not much has improved for our young girls. They are more vulnerable than ever with rape drugs easily available through the internet. I think that this new momentum for #metoo is desperately needed.  I speak now as a survivor, but more importantly, as a mother of a daughter. Thank you Mariska Hargitay and Kym Worthy for this momentum.
THE TIME FOR CHANGE IS NOW.
Pulling thousands of serial rapists off the streets
is a matter of National importance."
#iamevidence #metoo – Carolina Banks

Stalking social circles; wolves— half disguised.

Charming, charismatic, handsome, nice guys.

Serial rapist, sitting, beside me in class

while police* make women young and old - feel like trash.

So women whisper, count on our fingers

five, seven, she makes ten. More than a lecher,

this man’s drug is assault, erecting triggers.

The serial rapist still hangs with his bruhs.

Down for the bromance, these other men KNOW,

hell, they high-five, they dap “What is up Fam”

While women cower – loose the strength to stand.

We are your mothers, sisters, girlfriends, wives,

future bearers of iridescent dreams.

Fire consumes, my blood burns through my veins

as I tread among rapists. It is insane.

My soul melts, as the bruhs say, “He aight, we tight,

Just messy, aggressive when he dranks.”

When finally caught, men admit, “Yeah that guy was off.”

Still the women whisper our secret lists,

our “rape hoaxes” [real rapes] never taken serious.

And our men — twenty years later— still look the other way,

Still ignore, while their silence speaks libraries on who they abhor.

Will it take the day, when you meet the woman of your dreams,

the woman who would complete your life with her smile,

the one you want to mother your children, and you find

that she flinches, still, when you lean in to kiss,

that she is crying when she wants to make love?

Will it take the day, when your sister can no longer

bear to be hugged, that she jumps at your hand on her shoulder?

Will it take the day, when your daughter becomes the shell of herself

with the shame which she can’t even bring herself to voice aloud?

What will it take, to make men stand beside us in outrage,

when will men love us as they love
their own bodies, as they love themselves?

When will their baritones join with our sopranos in crying out?

#iamevidence
Watch I Am Evidence streaming on HBO now.
Then go to the I am Evidence website to join the movement.
https://www.iamevidencethemovie.com/
This movie will rock you to the core.




* I love the many police officers that support women and keep our communities safe. However, it is clear that officers could benefit from better training - and of course - the appropriate resources to protect our communities. 

No part of this poem may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Sharing is welcome with credit.

Carolina Banks is the pseudonym of another poet, KJ.

Lunch with Ivan at the Superior Kebab House

We end . . . .  again.

I knew. My eyes fell on your curling hair

uncombed, black dirt under your fingernails.

The words ‘Listen love’ scratching like a bear

into your throat. A star coward, you failed

to know your heart was emblazoned by miles

of kisses. Your lips spoke of comedy

the Russian dancing girl, your act, your lines

that all your money went to the big dream.

You said, ‘best Turkish pizza in London’

as you drew sips of dark bitter beet juice.

Its red scarring lips, your pained squinting, stunned.

A cat hesitating door front, your choice

was nonchalance but your neck muscles twitched.

Eyes scoured cold hands, inadequate, wishing.

(c) Carolina Banks 2017

Notes:

I wrote this poem for my British lover. I made the mistake of becoming entangled with a poet / comedian. Yes poet / comedian. As a poet, dating another poet is passionate but seems to end up like a flash in the pan. Add comedian in there . . .  and we found ourselves in a foggy unnamed three year passion called "its complicated."

No part of this poem may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Sharing is welcome with credit.