Sometimes I See a Man Who Hurts Me

Just the fact of the size of him.
Any him.
How much he doesn’t struggle to fill.
The broadness of shoulders that in no sense belong to me.
Shoulders I can neither have nor climb.
If that isn’t cruelty.
How they cut through the air and what else.
The way the fabric pulls across.
The way the sleeve hangs open when he reaches up.
The way the armpit calls me to memorize it.
The way he must lower the arm.
The way the bicep twitches.
The way the back ripples.
The way the ankle peeks.
The way the band of underwear inches upward
so he must reach in to push himself down again.
The scratch while he’s there.
The way there is no anguish in the face.
The way he looks in any direction, away from me.