I have been raised to fear my footfalls in the dark
to be a walking skirt
is to sacrifice safety,
sway like an open gate for danger.
but I collect my time
at night, my busy
breath, 11pm on the way home alone
from the party
defiant of some sort of fear,
I do not derobe myself of,
but eat like fuel
I have been followed home
like a lost gazelle
been reminded the ways
my collarbone bends for men
can bounce their calls around in the curve of it
it echos back to ask if I am lost
calls me baby, anything but my name.
I walk myself home each night,
my own private rebellion
carry a knife
carry darting eyes
runway posture
a fight brewing like strong coffee
maybe there is triumph in my body
crossing the threshold
call myself glory
all dressed up for the punches but still
alive tonight
look at all the different shoes we wear
each one carrying us after the speakeasy,
all ready to aim a kick to walk
through the door again
holy the pepper spray
unholy the need
holy the bitchface, the snarls,
the way we show our teeth but not to smile
holy my walks home
holy our safety
holy the made it alive texts
holy those who ask for them
night is not something you can strip
from the feminine so easily
its soft hands on the moon
don’t you ever wonder about the dew on our cheeks
our eyes glinting cosmic
the nightfall speaks to us
we are not lost
we have been taught to see our way back
by the stars just fine
Chestina Craig lives in Long Beach, CA with her cat. Her work has been published by The Rising Phoenix Review, Button Poetry and others. She has presented her work at The Presidents Commission on The Status of Women, The Young Women’s Empowerment Conference, & more. She has a degree in Marine Biology, and sometimes pets sharks and hangs out with octopuses. She hopes that one day she will only be required to wear gauzy clothing, study the ocean, and get paid to have too many feelings. Her chapbook “body of water” came out this fall with Sadie Girl Press.
