by Deborah Coy
I never told the school
how the boy groped me
in the art room.
They would have blamed it on
my sexy new sweater.
I never told the teacher
how the boy behind me
rubbed his foot on my ass
day after day.
I just scooted forward.
Who tells about the
innuendos on the street,
in the hallways?
“They all do it” and
you go on, a little smaller.
Who could you tell
when the voice
coming from the receiver
speaks the unmentionable?
You just block your phone.
Why tell on the
Octopus boy you are with
at the drive in who thinks the price
of your admission
is your body?
They wouldn’t believe
if I told of the veteran
who stood outside
my locked bathroom door
pounding his desire.
I never told my father
how the man we called Uncle
propositioned me because
I didn’t want to cause their ancient
friendship to end.
I never told because
I was wearing a miniskirt.
I never told because
of the skin I showed
with my low-cut blouse.
He never told how I
moved in too close for a hug
His body was so nice
and he knew
he was irresistible.
I never told
because I knew
it was my fault
I felt shamed.
After all, “boys will be boys.”
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"The woman said Mr. Lauer asked her to unbutton her blouse, which she did. She said the anchor then stepped out from behind his desk, pulled down her pants, bent her over a chair and had intercourse with her. At some point, she said, she passed out with her pants pulled halfway down. She woke up on the floor of his office, and Mr. Lauer had his assistant take her to a nurse. The woman told The Times that Mr. Lauer never made an advance toward her again and never mentioned what occurred in his office. She said she did not report the episode to NBC at the time because she believed she should have done more to stop Mr. Lauer. She left the network about a year later." —“NBC Receives at Least 2 New Complaints About Matt Lauer," The New York Times, November 29, 2017
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I never told the school
how the boy groped me
in the art room.
They would have blamed it on
my sexy new sweater.
I never told the teacher
how the boy behind me
rubbed his foot on my ass
day after day.
I just scooted forward.
Who tells about the
innuendos on the street,
in the hallways?
“They all do it” and
you go on, a little smaller.
Who could you tell
when the voice
coming from the receiver
speaks the unmentionable?
You just block your phone.
Why tell on the
Octopus boy you are with
at the drive in who thinks the price
of your admission
is your body?
They wouldn’t believe
if I told of the veteran
who stood outside
my locked bathroom door
pounding his desire.
I never told my father
how the man we called Uncle
propositioned me because
I didn’t want to cause their ancient
friendship to end.
I never told because
I was wearing a miniskirt.
I never told because
of the skin I showed
with my low-cut blouse.
He never told how I
moved in too close for a hug
His body was so nice
and he knew
he was irresistible.
I never told
because I knew
it was my fault
I felt shamed.
After all, “boys will be boys.”
Deborah Coy is an editor with award-winning Beatlick Press (New Mexico/Arizona Book Awards). She has had multiple poems published in various small presses.
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