Collective Unrest

 

Three Poems

February 15, 2019

TW for violence and murder

from Lynda Ann Healy
disappeared: 1/31/74

white female,
21,
student,
long dark hair,
just his type.
but you don’t know me.

i’ve got a backpack
full of groceries
and plans to cook for friends,
last supper.

saturday night,
2 days away
we’re throwing a party.

everyone will wonder
what happened to me,
but no one will imagine.

no one will want to believe
how i disappeared
how i was taken,
leaving only bloody sheets
in my wake.

my skull,
my mandible,
wait for spring’s thaw,
flowers faded from skin
long gone.

and still,
you’ll romanticize
that charming boy
who brutalized me,
this classy killer
that everyone knows everything
about, and yet cares to know
nothing about me.


from Donna Gail Manson
disappeared: 3/12/74

white female,
19,
student,
long dark hair,
just his type
but you don’t know me.

they say i have the blues,
not like music.
depressed like the
gray that settles a
shroud over Washington.

it’s the music i want
to hear,
that takes me out of myself
jazz in the Evergreens,
maybe that’s where my
happiness fled.

they still haven’t found
me, they, all the people
who maybe care. i’m mixed
up with unidentified remains
then lost, no forensics,
if that was ever me at all?

i’ve been missing for 44 years,
though no one’s looking now
because it was that cute guy,
you know,
the one all the girls want to date?
they want it even after he
flashes his charming smile,
pathology perfect,
and told you all i was gone.

i’m just another one of them,
another girl with long hair,
why can’t you remember me
as much as you revere him?


30+

thirty plus,
they say plus
because they don’t know
and never will.

he,
the idol,
superstar famous–
“he seemed like such
a nice guy.”

clean cut,
high wattage smile,
white privilege pathology.
whisper it, now
that’s ok,
he’s washed from the dirt
where he left us,
powdered up, put on stage.

everyone wants to know,

what makes him tick,

why

why

why

the fascination,
this thinly veiled blood lust
for gory details
like hiding a Playboy in
the pages of Newsweek.

everyone likes the fear,
without the risk
and your heart beats loud,
blood rushing in your ears.
you think you know
what it means to be us,
you are so sorry
but trust me, you don’t want
to be one of the thirty plus.

some of us counted,
some of us lost,
all of us dead,
in our long, dark hair–
not fit to stream,
after all, we did nothing
just waited,
while he,
the legend,
the hunter,
stalked us.

and don’t you know,

if he’d been poor–
white trash,
if he’d been any other color–
than white
there would be no fans,
maybe just vigils
for us

the thirty plus.

 

Juliette van der Molen is a feminist writer and poet living in the Greater NYC area. She is a contributing editor for Mookychick Magazine. Her books include:  Death Library: The Exquisite Corpse Collection (Moonchild Magazine, August 2018), Mother, May I? (Animal Heart Press, May 2019) and Anatomy of A Dress (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2019). Twitter via @j_vandermolen. Instagram via juliette.writes. Website: www.JulietteWrites.com

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