Joan Mazza

Double Sestina for Disputes

1.
I keep catching myself in mental arguments.
I replay old conversations, and speak
the truths I must have been afraid to say
back then. Why was it so hard to say no
when my parents often said no to me? Boundaries
were not so foreign. My sister stood up

to show me the line she drew across our bedroom, right up
until she married and moved out. Our fights
were over whose turn it was to dust. Boundaries
marked our closet space. Only later did she speak
sharply to me. When I objected, she checked out. No
doubt, she meant to keep me from having my say.

In my head, I shout, Don’t tell me what I can say
or to whom to say it. Long ago, I was fed up
with being the little sister. Now I can say no
to her or anyone. My imaginary arguments
shift. Some days, I argue with my dead husband, speak
to anyone who mocked me, and set my boundaries:

“I won’t take care of your dogs. Ever hear of boundaries,
Dr. Bob? I was your patient. What you say
to me is out of line.” How easy now to speak
these words. Twenty years too late. He shut me up
inside his rules and made the argument
that my therapy was private. I was to talk to no

one about its content or his directives. No
reputable therapist would say that or violate boundaries
as he did, like borrowing money. I had no argument
to counter his. Every time I protested, he said
I was neurotic, confused, out of touch. “Up
yours!” is what I’d like to say. “I’m speaking

to your other patients! I’m speaking
the whole truth. You can’t stop me. I know
how far you— no we— drifted. You can’t shut me up,
or tell me secrets as a way to keep me bound
to you. That’s mind control!” I want to say,
“Hear me now, I’m done with this argument.”

These arguments go on inside my head.
Speak up! Say NO! But that means I might
have to be alone with my boundaries.

2.
And now I wonder why I haven’t fought
back when in relationships with men who speak
to me with scorn. It’s not as if I had no way
out. Like my father, one man said, “No
talking. You’re breathing too loud,”— boundaries
absurd! He sat on my couch. I looked up,

astonished, felt six-years-old. He stood up
and yelled, “I have contempt for you!” That fight
was nearly over. I asked for my house keys, a boundary
to feel safe. Why did I allow him to speak
to me for months with such disapproval? I knew
he was angry, but never expected him to say,

“You’re an old lady!” What I really want to say
is, I’m angry with myself. I feel like I’m up
against my whole history, a family legacy. No
amount of therapy or insight stops the fights
inside my head. I replay the times I didn’t speak
my truth, or early on, set the proper boundaries.

Tell me, what words did I have to set boundaries
with my husband? I was twenty. When I heard him say
he was joining the Ku Klux Klan, I couldn’t speak.
This is the man I married? I kept my sunny side up,
laughed it off, was afraid to get into a fight
about race. He’d never see me as an equal. I had no

words to object. How could I have not known
him after our long engagement? I felt bound
once we’d been intimate and bought the argument
that men want virgins. It was 1968. Who can say
what choices were open to me? I was up
against brainwashing, starting with, “Do not speak

unless you’re spoken to.” I didn’t have words to speak
until I read The Feminine Mystique. I didn’t even know
I was oppressed when my husband wanted me dressed up
for him alone and then he wouldn’t shower. His boundaries
circumscribed mine and I could say
nothing. No one ever heard our arguments.

After all these mental arguments, I’m grown up.
I speak for myself, and I can say,
NO. I set my boundaries here.