On October 27, 1974, Inez Garcia was sentenced to life imprisonment for killing the man who helped rape her.

 

You don’t go back to your place

for three days— the sperm

stains on the velvet sofa

soak in; black smudges around

the light switches stick

to grease and sweat, incomplete

whorls, no fingerprints.

 

You flip through pictures

at the precinct.

You look for someone who followed you

from the subway station so

quietly you thought it was

your imagination

and decided it was stupid

to get so uptight

about someone following you.

 

You feel

pressure against your ribs

on the left side, a voice saying it has a gun.

You are told, at gunpoint,

to put it inside you.

The next night you wonder

if the gun was real.

 

You remember your astrologist saying,

“Geminis survive.”

He needs your key to get out.

You refuse to walk him to the door.

 

You would have preferred

a mad rapist yelling “honky bitch”

to this calm, collected man

who says he’s from Bed-Stuy

and apologizes 

for having done this to you.

He takes your TV and a suitcase

of summer clothes.

When the door clicks,

you call your boyfriend on the phone.

 

Precinct cops spread black dust

they tell you how to clean.

The detective from the Sex Crimes Unit

takes the description.

A month later he calls you at midnight

on Saturday night saying a lab report

confirms sperm stains on your underpants.

A few days later, you ask him

not to call you at home anymore.

A sergeant leaves his name for you at work.

He wants to talk about the case

for a course he’s taking.

The detective says you can

file a complaint with the

Review Board about the sergeant.

 

At the end of the month,

they drop the case.

You think you see the rapist on the subway.

Day after day, down at the station,

you wait in the dark mezzanine.