The Atom Remembers Oppenheimer
I swear. His advances were no seduction.
In fact, I felt hunted, at first,
his breath so close, I could smell his need
and the nicotine on his prying fingers.
Of course, he had his scientific process,
that cudgel meant to subdue me.
His equations calculating the best way
to take me apart.
If I’m honest, he terrified me,
his relentless tugging at the buttons
on my blouse, the shameless way
he unbuckled his belt.
When he split me,
I thought of elemental things—
oxygen in breath, carbon in bone,
iron in blood, sodium in tears.
*
Feast of the Patriarchy
The men lift their forks and smack their lips,
all fifty of them and their lawyers, seated
in row upon row of chairs directly opposite
the woman who confronts them now, alone
but awake, clear-eyed, and willing to show
her face in court because she has done
nothing wrong. Their feast table
was her marriage bed,
unmade by her husband and the drugs he used,
unmade by the hands of all these men
he invited in to consume her like a Sunday picnic
while she lay unconscious.
The party wasn’t hers. Instead, she endured
the rough touch and the thrust
to open her wide and ever wider still
to fill what should have been her screams
with their claims of consent
and their thick, remorseless entitlement.
*
Amy Riddell has three poetry collections, Prayer of Scalpel & Ash, Bullets in the Jewelry Box, and Narcissistic Injury. Her poems have recently appeared in The Philly Poetry Chapbook Review, The Inflectionist Review, Rust & Moth, SoFloPoJo, Misfit Magazine, and Rat’s Ass Review.
Wow.