After Judy Chicago

---

Your hands dovetail around 
my waist, seek to pull me closer 
as my back arches away. 
Come on darlin, you croon, 
the whiskey on your breath 
igniting the air between us. Let me 
take you home, take you to bed, 
you look like a whole lotta trouble. 

It isn’t enough to just say no, thank you. 
I have to lie about a fictional boyfriend 
waiting for me at home, an early morning job, 
a dog I need to take out. It’s not 
what you want to hear and when I 
wheedle out of your arms and turn to face 
the bar so I can settle up, you get pissed. 

Tease slut whore. Why’d you show up 
wearing that tight little top, your tits 
all pushed up, and a skirt too short 
to hide your ass if you bent over. 
Getting me hard. You knew what 
you were doing, and now you don’t 
wanna make good on it. I let you 

rant as I start planning my exit, 
I’ve already clocked every door 
that leads out of here, know 
which one is closest to my car. 
I reach for my purse, dig my hand 
inside, find the keys, weave them 
between my fingers like brass knuckles. 
Fuck you and your holier-than-thou 
pussy, you finish. Then toss out a bitch 
for good measure before stalking away. 

I seize the moment, 
throw my cash on the bar, 
duck out the back door, 
send my location to three friends, 
make sure someone knows 
where I am right now. I’m lucky, 

you don’t follow me out, 
don’t yell after me as I race 
across the parking lot, come 
back here you cunt, your heavy 
boots thudding on the pavement.
Don’t slam your arm into the driver’s side 
door as I reach for it, hands 
shaking, but the keys still firmly 
between my fingers. Don’t push me 
roughly around, grabbing at my jacket, 
forcing it off my shoulder as you thrust 
your hips against me. Don’t clamp your 
meaty hand over my mouth as I start 
to scream, choking off the plea for help 
before it’s more than a whimper. 

And I don’t bite down hard 
as you curse and pull back, 
just a fraction, just enough 
for me to swing back and slash 
your face with my keys, like a cornered 
cat, the blood thin and bright. 
Don’t drive the heel of my shoe 
into your crotch, watch you 
double over in pain, the fury 
in your eyes boiling so that I see
the murder there. I’ll kill you, 
you hiss, lunging for me as I
reach for a brick off a pile I parked
near when I got here, thinking 
I could use it for just this instant 
as I smash it into your head again 
and again screaming in fury until 
you collapse on the ground. 

I’m lucky tonight, as I drive home 
past the late night diner and 7-Eleven, 
several other cars on the road, more 
than what might be hoped for this late, 
pull into my driveway with the automatic 
motion sensing light, walk up the path 
to my door, turn the key in the lock, draw 
the bolt behind me. In the bathroom, I wash 
my face, brush my teeth, climb into bed 
alone and safe, turn out the light, 
close my eyes, remember that I’ll 
need to wash the blood off my keys 
before I leave for work in the morning.

---

Chelsea Fanning is a poet, editor, witch from New Jersey. She is the author of “To Love a Fierceness so Bright” (Nymeria Publishing 2025). Her work has appeared in Electric Lit, Maudlin House, Mom Egg Review, Miniskirt Magazine, and elsewhere. Chelsea is the poetry editor at Fatal Flaw Magazine. She is a horror movie junkie and lives in Jersey City with her partner and feline familiar.