cw: implications of sexual trauma
clench clench clench clench clench clench clench the doctor
says I have to stop holding my vagina like a fist. I tell him I am
a young woman: I don’t fight, I don’t have fists. I am just
pursing: purse, verb, very, ladylike. e.g.: my vagina is pursing
like a grandmother’s lips. stehstehstehstehsteh—that’s the
sound of a tongue sticking-unsticking from the roof of a happy
mouth. that’s satisfaction after a cup of sweet tea that was not a
want, but a need. of course, I am not satisfied. my soft animal
and I have not had a good drink in months. we are parched. I
just moved to this stone-cut city. I am hardly ever recognized, I
am hardly ever a guest. no one has had the opportunity to offer
us a hand, a seat, a photo album, or a glass of something with
or without ice. the doctor says clenching usually follows at
trauma’s heels. did I know I was both the two god-hands and
the babydoll being squeezed to its seams? no, nothing ripped.
but the jaw does unlock itself and hang open. time to time.
I ask the orthodontist why my mouth keeps unraveling and hitting
the floor like a cat-cartoon in love. well, because I am, yes,
clenching.
ing ing ing ing ing ing ing ing ing ing ing—he puts one finger
in my mouth, squeaky and blue, tells me to bite. my jaw is
quite strong and “this is not a compliment.” the pink doctor
puts in a finger too. he notes that me and Mine are not very
welcoming. not very hospitable, no “come in,” no “can I take
your coat,” he asks who raised me?? I beg him not to tell my
grandmother! He asks for my history, I cough, a cover. we don’t
have to talk about it. okay. well. Mine is too tight and have I
heard of vaginal physical therapy? it’s a little uncomfortable
lots of single, plastic fingers, and deep breaths, we can call it: a
last resort
I put on my underwear. I rinse out my mouth. I pay my
deductible. I leave the building and stay in the lot. in my car, I
imagine myself as an open palm. see each finger of my body
undo and soften until I am as exposed as a peony at the top of
May. I imagine my therapist or the youtube yoga instructor in
the passenger. next to me. taking my very open palms and
placing one on my heart, one on my stomach, reminding me
how to breathe so that my belly stretches into a bowl. I do this
until I am calm enough to be bored with the way boys have
wounded and hardened me. I Type. Tweet: “doctor said my
pussy too tight! And my jaw?? Very powerful!” Send.
this is called reframing. if I die, they win.
Dylan Gilbert
Dylan Gilbert is a poet who hails from Ann Arbor, Michigan. She currently resides in New York and is working towards her MFA at Columbia University. Her work has won several Hopwood Awards and has appeared in Panacea Review.
