Cynthia Blank
Poetic Justice
When the company that refused to fire your abuser starts to implode, you don't think
of poetic justice, at least not right away. You think of the stairwell he attacked you in,
how it's probably still dark and dirty and filled with all the things you had to
shed like dead skin. You think, also, of the company's owner, sticking variations of
blame-needles into each of your limbs. Maybe you feel anesthetized, or maybe the
pain is too agonizing to describe. (And even if you could describe it, you still wouldn't
be believed.) So you are left laughing, thinking it ironic everyone is telling you how
good it is you left when you did, as if leaving weren't a punishment, as if you had an
active choice in the ripping apart of your seams. Then, the only poetic justice you can
think of is that the pen he gave you still has ink in it, because you have not stopped
trying to rewrite history to fit a narrative that conforms to how you once envisioned
common sense. And when someone says she's sorry this still affects you months later,
you smile and think how easy it must be for some to just will all that happened away.
Cynthia Blank received her MFA in Poetry from Bar Ilan University's Shaindy Rudoff Creative Writing Graduate Program. Her work has been featured most recently in Varnish Journal, Escapism Literary Magazine, Anapest, IthacaLit, Black Napkin Press, and Lilith Magazine.
Poetic Justice
When the company that refused to fire your abuser starts to implode, you don't think
of poetic justice, at least not right away. You think of the stairwell he attacked you in,
how it's probably still dark and dirty and filled with all the things you had to
shed like dead skin. You think, also, of the company's owner, sticking variations of
blame-needles into each of your limbs. Maybe you feel anesthetized, or maybe the
pain is too agonizing to describe. (And even if you could describe it, you still wouldn't
be believed.) So you are left laughing, thinking it ironic everyone is telling you how
good it is you left when you did, as if leaving weren't a punishment, as if you had an
active choice in the ripping apart of your seams. Then, the only poetic justice you can
think of is that the pen he gave you still has ink in it, because you have not stopped
trying to rewrite history to fit a narrative that conforms to how you once envisioned
common sense. And when someone says she's sorry this still affects you months later,
you smile and think how easy it must be for some to just will all that happened away.
Cynthia Blank received her MFA in Poetry from Bar Ilan University's Shaindy Rudoff Creative Writing Graduate Program. Her work has been featured most recently in Varnish Journal, Escapism Literary Magazine, Anapest, IthacaLit, Black Napkin Press, and Lilith Magazine.