Sass

Description

Sass When I was thirty-two, I kicked the windshield out of a Ford Roadster while being dragged to the asylum in Frankfort. What else could it be but sass? I wondered what they were doing, their hands all over me. Soon, though, it was clear: they thought me mad; and instead of being careful not to brush my breasts or hike my skirt and display undergarments and pale woman-skin, they weren't careful. No, they wrestled me as if I were an animal. I stopped kicking long enough to catch them off guard, broke off swearing at them, those men who meant me bodily harm. Who meant to control me when they cried Stop, Susan! like knowing my name meant they knew all of my secrets. A man is vulnerable, too. The married one I ran up the phone pole, waving that forty-five, begged for his life as I fired. You can kick and gouge them in the groin, in the eyes. And they didn't suspect the strength of a mad woman to be equal to theirs. I wasn't going back without them wearing reminders that some women are a tale of sin and penance for sin; others are a whole other order of justice. If I screamed God's name, whose frail exposure was on display? Whose limbs wore scratch marks the color of a rooster's wattle? All I'd done was say "Fuck you" in a voice they'd remember to the grave. How fortunate they were, part of belief in a deity whose aim was to aid men. Because once you've worn the leather of restraints and felt the ah-ha jolt of electroshock, it's all the same day. Once you've borne the weight <b>...</b>

Keywords

Twohawksfucking, Roy, Bentley, Spoken, Word, Poetry, Madness, Anger, Women, in, Asylums

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