Venice Beaches

I went to Venice and kept my legs tightly shut

though my best friend and travel companion did not.

I watched her leave with the setting sun

tumble back into bed as the morning rose again.

I laid out on Venice beaches in the waning rays of sun

in the shortest dresses I could find

and felt sure that I was dying.

I’ve always been a woman of faith, after all

eyes cast downward, looking for scraps of Scripture on the ground

finding all the Commandments to remember.

I saw it written

that a man who looks at a woman with lust

should remove both his eyes.

Far better to enter the kingdom of heaven and be unable to see

than watch your whole body cast down.

But they don’t remove their eyes, do they? They don’t.

I never saw them try

though that’s all I do.

I try hard enough to loathe myself

because only shame makes me feel I’m doing right.

Though it occurred to me just the other day

do I not have eyes worth keeping too? My hazel eyes...

I could swear on the last rays of sun that I do.

And haven’t I the same hands, feet, mouth, organs...

affections and deep, deep passions

though I tried to kill such parts of myself in European summers

but they survived

and the serpent inside me mocks me now

drawing my passions and desires lower, lower

debasing me further, and further.

And certainly I am subject to the same diseases

healed by the same means

though I know the spiritualists would not believe it

and they would tell me, the only sickness is in your mind

and leave the truth of your illness behind

but I...

I don’t know I could do that.

And I’ve been cooled by the same Vancouver winters

shivered in glee as the snow rushed down bright white above my window

and I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave my house for a week.

And certainly I am warmed by the same summers too

sweltering hot on French, Italian, Spanish beaches

the globe inside my mind dims and flickers

as the heat grows heavy, thoughtless

caressing, oppressing me.

You pricked me, and I bled

bled, bled, bled for days

weeks, hours, months...

a year

longer, if I am honest.

I could have bled into the earth, as the spiritualists told me to

though I didn’t feel I was up to leaving my bedroom.

You poisoned me, and I thought I died

though now I see my death was only a trick of the light

for the poison seeped into my veins, and made me effervescent

and you lit me on fire then

bright and cruel against a dark, unforgiving sky.

You wronged me, and I had—

see, and you told me that I didn’t actually, just smile and take out my

eyes, that was what you told me—

but you did wrong me.

You wronged me, and I’m sorry

but I had

I had to strike back

and harder, too.

You tell me I’m wrong

but I had to.