after Rachael Duke's "Threads of a Digital Sisterhood"

In this small space of concrete and brick,

gallerygoers' speech becomes noise.

Reflections ricochet from stone, clatter

and clamor, crunch and spit.

The paintings are women's voices raised

in frustration, drained

from living in fear, demeaned

diminished, bone-tired

of being viewed as less than.

Through the haze of charcoal,

under brushstrokes of acrylic,

they trade the stories shared

by every woman in this world, the fear

of violence, of rape, the simple

but unfulfilled desire to go

from here to there alone

unmolested, safe.

On paper and canvas, from wheel and spoke

they rage and storm.

Hell hath no fury like women scorned

for being women.

I talk with the artist's sister,

pretty, polite, personable, her voice

mid-range, soft. I lean in,

strain to hear with ears damaged

from years of sharing the stage

with musicians fighting to be heard.

High frequencies lost in the echo chamber,

consonants jumble and bounce

off walls into the unintelligible.

What is it about women's voices

that we are so hard to hear?

Is it that we are too polite

to raise them until our mounting fury

can no longer be restrained?

A man next to us—tall, white,

self-possessed, possessed of self,

looks pissed off, interrupts

our conversation, tells

the artist's pretty sister to

rotate the wheeled work in front of us

so he can read its hanging banners,

its messages in text and image:

A man in a roomful of women

is excited.

A woman in a roomful of men

is terrified.

He opines to the artist's sister,

words lost in the cacophony.

Ignored, I drift away, think

This exhibit is all about

women's voices, and this man

can't shut up for just one minute?

I recount this story to my partner, a man

who streams women's sports

in the background while he's working

so their teams can get the clicks,

the audience numbers, the sponsorships,

equity.

Some men, he says,

feel they have to qualify themselves

in every space.

Later, I wonder why I didn't confront

the man in the gallery, ask him

What made your convenience

worthy of interrupting our conversation?

I wonder why I didn't call him out, reclaim

time and attention shared

between two women,

defend from an interloper

the dialogue of sisters.

But we have to pick our battles

because it was dark outside

and I had to walk to my car

alone.

(Previously published in Wayfarer Magazine.)