When I was young, I
used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and
down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as
mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there.
Fifteen
Years old and starving
for them.
Under my window, they
would pauses,
Their shoulders high
like the
Breasts of a young
girl,
Jacket tails slapping
over
Those behinds,
Men.
One day they hold you
in the
Palms of their hands,
gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg
in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just
a little. The
First squeeze is nice.
A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness.
A little
More. The hurt begins.
Wrench out a
Smile that slides around
the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding
fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a
kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their
legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights
itself again,
And taste tries to
return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed
shut. Forever.
No keys exist.
Then the window draws
full upon
Your mind. There, just
beyond
The sway of curtains,
men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will
simply
Stand and watch.
Maybe.