His sleepy eyes were focused on people in the grocery store parking lot
(CW: sexual harassment)
putting away parcels of sugary cereal, Mountain Dew, cold cuts of turkey and ham from the deli wrapped in cellophane, all of this from cart to trunk, slamming metal closed tight, getting in their cars or out of them and into the sterile lights of the store, while somewhere a little girl giggles, high-pitched and bright in the winter air, and I think of my mother taking me to grocery stores, walking the entire way because we were too poor for a car, carrying loads of plastic bags from Save-A-Lot to our apartment, the bags’ handles stretched like taffy from the weight, wrapped around my little fingers tight and hurtful, the journey seeming to last forever and now, here I am, parked next to this man, his lazy, almost-shut eyes patrolling the lot, peeping at people, like me, going about their grocery store business at noon on a weekday, while his arm, below the steering wheel works in sensual rhythm, his bare-browned legs visible in the sideview mirror, a funhouse, distorting reality around it and I remember, years ago, going to a labyrinth made of mirrored glass, strobe lights bouncing, turning on then off again, submerging me into total darkness, completely lost, and every turn I make to escape, to get out, ends dead-end, met with my own reflection staring back at me, finally clear, a distorted term, as in, I can see him now in the clear light of day, while I hoist my groceries into the trunk, thankful for sunglasses, a shield, a barrier, like being separated from a disembodied voice at the other end of the telephone in the department store where I worked as a strange man called my name Bethany as he asked if I liked big dicks, if I’d like to see his, grateful the whole time he couldn’t see my face as his words splattered against it like a glass jar of spaghetti sauce might shatter and splatter against the street, like I am grateful now for the sunglasses-shield from the man parked beside me with his penis pulled out in the grocery store parking lot as I refuse to give him the scream from deep within my stomach, refuse to give him anything, so instead I press my body against the body of my car, tuck myself into the driver seat, and start the engine, the little girl’s giggles still ringing in my ears and I wonder if I heard her right, wonder if she was actually crying instead?
B. Woods lives in Huntington, West Virginia, where she teaches English at a private high school. She holds an English MA from Marshall University and an MFA from Western Washington University. Her poetry has been published in Storm Cellar, Bacopa Literary Review, and Anamoly Lit, among others. She is currently working on a docupoetics manuscript on Appalachia, familial ghosts, and generational trauma.
