Tell her: Complete strangers
have patted my head, kissed
my cheek, called me courageous.
Tell this story more than once, ask
her to hold you, rock you
against her body, breast to back,
her arms curving round, only
you flinch unchosen, right arm trembles.
Don't use the word spastic.
In Europe after centuries
of death by exposure
and drowning,
they banished us
to the streets.
Let her feel the tension burn down your arms,
tremors jump.Take it slow: when she asks
about the difference between CP and MS,
refrain from handing her an encyclopedia.
If you leave, know that you will ache.
Resist the urge to ignore your body. Tell her:
They taunted me retard, monkey,
defect. The words sank into my body.
The rocks and fists left bruises.
Gimps and crips, caps
in hand,we still
wander the streets but now
the options abound: telethons,
nursing homes,welfare lines.
Try not to be ashamed as you flinch and tremble
under her warm hands.Think of the stories you haven't
told yet.Tension locks behind your shoulder blades.
Ask her what she thinks as your hands shake
along her body, sleep curled against her,
and remember to listen: she might surprise you.
everyday encounters
written 1992
Eli Clare