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No One Can Hear Our Flag Waving so We Slash It Through the Air Again Again Again 
Again Again  
Zoe Wallace, Stanford ‘23 
 
Content warning: This poem does reference sexual violence. Readers are advised to take these 
into account before proceeding. 
 
Dad said not to call again 
out loud,  
so I use the inside voice 
ringing through my brain.  
 
911 how can I hel p? 
She is staying silent.  
Her sobs have been quaking  
in our chests for weeks now 
please HEL P 
every morning they shred my sleep 
like a tattered wife beater. 
 
Hello? Miss-- what’s your emergency? 
Every warning mother gave us fires 
deep into my throat. 
When uneven steps kneeling on ground 
carry her to the roof of my house, 
I can see her through my window, 
faceless 
 
the reflection  
of my eyebrow just slightly overplucked, a missing hair 
in my arch picking and picking and picking and picking  
at my nerves because it leaves the tail too bare-- 
a line ready to snap-- 
my moistened waterline 
my reddened cheeks 
the easy slope of my nose sinking into the depth of my cupid’s bow lipstick smudged at the 
corners  
of my mouth that opens into a hole just dark enough to hide anything perfect for swallowing 
salty secrets my lips screwed tight 
all serving as hers. 



 

 

 
I’m sorry, Miss-- can you speak up? 
Tonight is the night 
i tell her i was there. 
i apologize. 
for being paralyzed for so long 
still, i heard at two a.m.  
when he sneered no one could. 
i heard his laughter 
at her sobs, voice cracking 
HEL P 
HEL P 
HEL P 
P LEASE 
 
a mantra to forget 
or maybe a prayer, but 
please forgive me if I can’t understand the god of predators 
if i can’t hear him in her muffled cries 
see him through our blurred vision smell him through the gunpowder feel him as bloody 
entitlement stains my fingerprints Miss-- 
 
Slow down. Describe the situation clearly. 
i am. 
telling you the sin 
of believing in Fear 
that he was watching two  
stories above like the hawk he is 
ready to make my face hers 
 
i confess i’m urged to close my eyes 
still. 
call it a nightmare 
so vultures can play pretend 
as i continue to wake to the tears of my God, 
Her, thundering sobs  
day after day after day after-- 
 
Just tell me where you are. 
i’m sorry I don’t know street names 



 

 

i wonder if i’m even of any 
HEL P 
 
but i beg you i need 
HEL P 
HEL P 
HEL- 
 
i would finish but operator the letter “p” died that night 
“please” gets us nowhere 
only plays us into a predator’s fetish for submission 
so i guess all we have left is 
HEL 
 
Miss-- the police are on their way. Go back to bed. *click* HEL P 
will they be of any HEL P 
 
i think i called too late 
i called too late waited  
for someone else to 
call too late 
i really did because 
she is still sobbing 
on the roof mascara is dripping 
dried red down her neck or maybe  
it’s just black or maybe it’s just  
tears or maybe i can’t see because sirens 
are too loud annoyed-no-interrupted yells are too loud hurried steps are too loud all i see is  
red 
and blue splatter white walls 
a moment 
and the walls are yellowed by street lights 
a moment of silence. 
and she is still faceless. 
 
i must call again 
i must find  
the missing pieces 
of her face 
or maybe i should break the window 



 

 

she could be in the shards maybe 
i should walk down the alley  
two stories down  
find letters of her name in the garbage maybe 
Sam Eve 
or Eva Ems 
i wonder if the “m” i’ll find 
points up like “w” 
or down because i was 
minutes too late 
 
still 
i will call again 
dad said not to but 
i will call again 
“there’s no point” but 
i will call again 
i swear i will call again 
so please help 
i will call again i will call again i will call again again again again again and again and again 
please did you find her i will call again i will call again help i will call again and again and again 
faster i will call again sooner i will call again and again and again and i want to know again i will 
call again i need to know again again again is she OK again i will call please i need to know 
again again again i will call again again is she alive i will call again and again and again and 
again i will call again so did i kill her i will call again faster this time i will call again again and 
again and i’m sorry i will call again. Again.  
 
Meet the piece: This poem relates to feminism, gender, and sexuality because it not only 
tackles the constant fear of sexual assault and rape that many women face on a daily basis, 
but how we owe it to one another to stand by each other in the case it does happen. One night 
in high school, I was up late and distinctly remember hearing a woman’s cries for help right 
outside my window. The entire neighborhood was silent except for her pleas and the maniacal 
laughter of her assailant. Having no one to turn to, I remember not knowing what to do and 
being afraid that if I called the police, somehow the aggressor would know it was me and seek 
my family out. I regret debating for so long, but I did end up calling for help. Still, I never 
found out what happened to her. I wanted so badly to make sure she was okay, but I heard 
nothing of it in the news and was told the cops wouldn’t release that kind of information. So, 
there was no point in calling again. This poem is my confrontation with the emotions I felt 
during and after that night, which I had never truly been able to face before. I was expected to 
simply accept what happened, all the possible outcomes, and keep it moving. I wasn’t the one 



 

 

harmed, so what was there to be hung up about? This. This piece stands to show what there is 
to be hung up about. We see the patriarchy manifest in women in many ways, and one of 
which is through fear. The majority of us have been guilty of being bystanders to someone 
else’s pain out of fear that if we speak up, we’ll end up facing that same misery. I hope that 
this poem helps anyone who reads it come face-to-face with their inner bystander, overcome it, 
and offer a hand to those begging for help just outside their door. Or else, those harmed 
(especially women, and especially women of color) will be swept under the rug, faceless. And 
while such anonymity can make it easy to distance oneself, I can no longer help but see my 
own face in their place. 
 
 


