Jaclyn Dwyer


Sometimes I want
to be small, a paper crane
folded into something
delicate. I want to be a blue
transformer who can
with one move slip
into his own truckbed and
zoom away. Once
in the moon dark
night at the freightyard
my boyfriend led me inside
an open trailer. Like bait
I was small and swallowed up.
Where so much had been
now was nothing. He told me
how strange men might
live in a space as tall and
wide as this, and I
wanted to run, leapt
from the trailer like
a child in the emergency
drill at the back of the bus.
I wanted to have
never been. Big fish? 
Strange man? Did it really
happen like this? This
is what it feels like
to say me too, the exhilarating          
loss of something dear
you never wanted,
of becoming someone
you never knew,
the weight of having
to haul something
you never asked to hold.






When I was in high school, my boyfriend took me to a gravel lot with empty trailers and hopped into one. Initially, I thought this would be exciting, but actually, I was terrified for reasons the poem explores. Experiences like this serve to remind me how the world presents certain dangers to women that men seem to hardly notice.