Don’t Touch Me.
Christmas cocktails, helping in the kitchen,
heels stockings little black dress.
Laughing while I serve
prosciutto wrapped asparagus on a silver tray
to friends on our way to the Theater.
Then he touched me.
The token stranger someone brought
to fluff out our party
slid his hand down my back,
around my waist.
So I say please don’t touch me
with a smile on my face
but I was serious, shocked he dared,
here, in my most safe place.
A cork pops. I move into comfort
enfolded, accepting a glass and
a kiss from my oblivious love.
She is so happy. Friends, neighbors,
holiday high spirits bubble like the wine,
so I say nothing.
Then he touched me again.
He ran his hand down my back
and lightly over my ass.
So I growl, Really.
Don’t touch me.
I don’t like it.
Firmly, coldly, glowering,
quiet to not spoil the party.
Laughter spills bundled outside,
sparkling clear, cold as the wine,
piling into chilly vans,
over the river and through the woods
to the long awaited performance.
In the van behind me,
smirking hands creep over the seat
and touch me again.
So I turn, I bark
Don’t touch me.
Really, it's not welcome,
not welcome at all.
Eyebrows on the others raise
for the first time.
With an audience now,
a reptilian chuckle
slithering over my shoulder
down to my breast
So I gently lift the hand in mine
and stroke it
and then sharply quickly powerfully
bend his little finger back much farther
than it was ever intended to go
until I hear a satisfying crack.
He screams like a little girl,
jumps out of the van
hopping around the Theater parking lot
trying to undislocate the
grotesquely bent claw.
Everyone turns to look.
So I say,
I told you don’t touch me.
(Updated final version)