Lately I’ve been having thoughts
of castrating older men.
Not all of them.
Just the ones who mistake
a poetry reading
for a dating service.
The ones who stand by the sign-up sheet
complimenting a twenty-three-year-old’s work
with their eyes fixed somewhere else.
The ones who own the venue,
host the event,
run the workshop,
and think every “no”
is a public humiliation.
I’ve watched it happen
for twenty years.
A woman reads three poems.
The room leans forward.
After the show,
some guy old enough to know better
decides her presence
is an invitation.
A week later
her name isn’t on the list.
A month later
she stops answering messages.
Another voice disappears.
That’s the part that gets me.
Not the rejection.
Not the bruised ego.
The waste.
All those poems
that might never get written.
All those years
someone could have spent
becoming an artist
spent wondering instead
whether every room
comes with a cost.
The men I’m talking about
always have explanations.
Misunderstanding.
Mixed signals.
Bad timing.
Excuses so thin
light passes through them.
The people who taught me better
never made it complicated.
Respect people.
Take no for an answer.
Leave the room better
than you found it.
And when you inherit a community,
you don’t treat newcomers
like prey.
You make space.
You remember someone
made space for you.
And if people are coming up behind you,
you hold the door open.
You don’t stand in it.