People You May Know by Kevin Kantor

When my rapist showed up under the People You may know tab on Facebook it felt like the closest to the crime scene I’ve ever been.

That is if I don’t count the clockwork murder that I make of my own memory every time that I drive down Colfax avenue.

Still, I sit in my living room, I sift for clues.

Click ; I see myself caught in his teeth.

He’s dancing with his shirt off in a city that I’ve never been to.

Click ; he is eating sushi over a few beers with friends and I am under his fingernails.

Click ; I know that alley.

Click ; I killed the memory of that t-shirt.

Click ; this is an old photograph. It’s a baby picture. There’s also an older man, presumably his father, they are both round and right and still smiling.

Click ; he is shirtless again and I catch my reflection in the weight room mirror. “#beastmode selfie”

I call him the wolf when I write about him. The wolf, so as to make him as storybook as possible.

The wolf when I write about him which is to say, when my memory escapes the murder, or when the internet suggests it.

Facebook informs me that we have three mutual friends.

Which is to say, that he is People You May Know.

Which is to say that I am people you may know,

and there are people that know, and people that don’t know.

And people that don’t know, I want to know, I’m afraid to let know.

And probably people that know him, know of me, that know.

The word “know,” “know” “know”

Know is a flock of sleeping sheep sitting in my mouth and now,

now I know the wolf’s middle name and what he listens to on Spotify.

And the all too familiar company that he keeps,

and he can no longer be a wolf. Or the nameless grave that I dig for myself on bad days.

We have three mutual friends on Facebook, and now it feels like they are holding the shovel.

64 people liked the shirtless gym pic.

and four people have told me they’d rather I had said nothing.

Two police officers told me, that I must give his act a name or it didn’t happen.

That obviously I could have fought back.

Which is to say, no one comes running for young boys who cry rape.

When I told my brother, he also asked me why I didn’t fight back.

Adam, I am. Right now. I promise.

Everyday I write a poem titled “Tomorrow”

it is a handwritten list of the people I know that love me

and I make sure to put my own name at the top.

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