Dana Tenille Weekes: At 23, I Reported a Case of Sexual Harassment and Was Asked to Meet About It a Week Later

I am told to think of him, a Black man, 
a father of a two-month-old. Imagine, 

as I lean into my lungs, concentrate on cocoa, 
this porcelain before me. Watch steam wither. Wonder

if I can bring anything back with held breath,
if I can hold together long enough for these two 

Black women to bang their fists just once 
on pretend marble. Loud themselves like they do 

in the movement. Like how they march 
& maneuver a microphone & agitate 

for another applause. I have been told
they are the map, the ministry, the matriarchs— 

keep telling me, We Black women are saints. 
Abandon our bodies to ascend for our men.     As if 

I prayed for this anointing, as if I prayed pristine,
put myself in this claustrophobic 

café four, maybe, five stories beneath 
him. Propped at his desk, neck wrapped rosary—

bestowed every reassurance from the matriarchs,
You are not enough god, but you are still a king.


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