Goodnight, Boston 

Bare legged, I slip off my shoes and walk across the cold cobblestone
Tip-toeing my way
To the edge of the grass of the
Boston Common.

I shouldn’t be out walking this late at night,
But she is my city, and
I love her.

The tulips greet me by name and laugh at my legs that are so white they almost appear glowing
and the Swan boats that are resting for the night on the duck pond quack a little as I walk past, bidding me goodbye.
This is my last night in Boston.
Even the nail polish on my toes is making friends with stars, savoring this moment of exchange in the darkness.
And me, I smile and walk
Grateful to be in the company
Of such friends

I was taught, growing up, that
The darkness wasn’t my friend
That amidst the tulips and trees were scary things like people waiting to mug you, hurt you, or scare you.

But as I walk through this night, so close to midnight with the stars, moonlight, and city lights to guide me– I think about the things 30 has taught me.

I am more afraid of other women raping my reputation than I am of a male rapist. I am more fearful of the patriarch stealing my rights than I am of someone stealing my purse.

And that’s why I chose to walk with my city one last time, oh so close to midnight, in the darkness of the Boston Common.
Because what rises above
Rapists and thieves, people who set out intentionally to hurt others, and this whole systemic patriarchy
is a woman who knows herself and fears only the absence of her shadow amidst such things.

My toes greet the pavement and I slip on my shoes and slip into the subway and ride away from city,
Kissing it goodbye and goodnight through the stinky subway air.



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