Walk out past the stacks, rows, aisles
of books, where memoirs of battles slowly gave way
to case histories of molestation and abuse.
Your grandest gestures remain
unnoticed. You have
a hand which can part oceans,
but cannot save you from the desires
of men. Girl, you are to be useful
in moist ways. They care nothing for
the goings on in that mind of yours.
Don’t even try to talk. Unless
to advertise for sex or violence.
There is no God. You are all
that you have, & that body may be able
to find you some bread to break. You can
always obtain wine to drink. You have
the right frame for that. They like you
intoxicated. Under their weight,
you imagine Kafka, become the Hunger
Artist. Hungry to find any meaning
to the needless sufferings you are
so gifted to witness. No man cares about
the story of a girl deflowered at an age too young
to acknowledge. No one wants to know
such things, but there you are:
seedless & hollow. There are
things people do not know they have
until those things are gone. You
did not know you’d be the poetry
of a boiler room romance with a man too old
to be your father, & you too young
to know what you possessed. Too young
to do anything but bear witness to your own ruin.