Barbara Goldberg has authored four prize-winning poetry books, most recently The Royal Baker’s Daughter, recipient of the Felix Pollak Poetry Prize. Her latest book, Scorched by the Sun: Poems by Moshe Dor, contains her translations of one of Israel’s foremost poets. She and Dor also edited and translated three anthologies of contemporary Israeli poetry, including After the First Rain: Israeli Poems of War and Peace. Goldberg’s work has appeared in Paris Review, Poetry, and Best American Poetry. Among her honors are two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts. A former senior speechwriter at AARP, she currently is Writer in Residence in American University’s MFA program.
Goldberg: Some years back, I won a poetry contest. The “prize” was a free weekend at an artist’s farmhouse just outside Washington, DC. The farmhouse was lovely, in a shabby kind of way, large and airy. The artist was there when I arrived, as were a few other poets. The next day, she and the others left, all except one who was staying in a geodesic dome on the property. The next night, I was alone in the house. Because my room was bright in the mornings, I went to sleep with a long black sock around my eyes. Suddenly, I felt a presence in my room and ripped off the sock. A strange man, tall and drunk, stood by my bed. My first impulse was to soil myself. I saw he had a knife. I feared he would cut me up so badly that no one would recognize me. I thought of my two children growing up without me. I believed I would die.
He sat down on my bed and asked if I had a match. I actually did, but told him to look in the kitchen downstairs. Off he went, and I frantically looked out my window to see if I could crawl out to the roof, jump to the ground, and hide in the bushes. It was raining torrents and it was pitch black outside. The roof was steep and slippery. The jump itself could lead to serious injury. I ruled out hiding in the house because he might find me and become enraged. He returned with a lit cigarette and sprawled out on the bed, his knife visible at all times. He began talking about his father, his new Trans Am. He asked me my name. It turned out he was searching for the woman he had given a ride to that afternoon, the one staying in the dome.
Time passed. My goal was to keep him talking. I asked a lot of questions about his car. I could tell he was slow-witted, yet excited to be with a white woman from the city. He asked if he could fuck me, but I suggested we hold hands instead. I was astonished when he agreed. I began to think I might live. He grew tired. I suggested we meet for a “date” the next afternoon and that he should dress up. He left at dawn without physically harming me.
I filed charges and appeared twice before a grand jury. They first dismissed all charges, claiming I had “seduced” the man. The second time I appeared with unwashed hair and baggy, outsized, clothing. I cried all the way through the questioning – on purpose. This time, there was a more favorable outcome. Why? Because clearly I was a helpless woman. And because of my tears.
The first poem to emerge from this experience was “After Babel,” which describes in a precise, dispassionate, voice what happened.
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