by Micky Shorr
What Was Mine
Infected my healthy pleasures.
Acted like I was despicable.
She read what was mine.
A bad reputation must be avoided.
I have that by 6th grade.
Before knowing a thing about sex.
Just because my breasts appear.
In 7th grade - Scotty waits at the bus stop.
Saddle shoes and poodle skirt,
I follow him as he brings his bicycle
into the dark barren basement.
He stands astride the bike
penis rigid as the handlebars.
I still don’t know a thing about sex.
He tells me touch it, and I do.
Not quite certain which is which.
High school freshman afternoons
I’m learning how to enjoy my body.
Getting pregnant means a girl
has ruined her life.
Making out is permissible.
Active participant in these
age-expected encounters. I write
the lessons in my secret diary.
Come home one day to mother’s’s scowl.
She won’t look at me directly.
Silent treatment for a week.
But to call me nymphomaniac.
She read what was mine.
Acted like I was despicable.
My natural wish to be connected.
Polluted
This Other Reality
I stand on the wobbly mattress
in the war zone of my childhood
stare at that picture above their headboard
study the couple out in the garden
the father bathes whenever he pleases,
stays in tub for hours. I can’t hold it
any longer, have to pee in front of him
stretched out there self important.
annoyed by my interruption. tiny
wet washcloth barely covers his bulge
gazebo in the background
her gown is blue
him dressed in tights and ruffles
he offers her a tender gaze
or I’m ordered to kiss the father goodnight
filled with dread to enter dimly lit bedroom
he’s sprawled above the covers on the far
side of the bed
hair upswept, she leans lightly into him
their cheeks touch
I’m forced to take that long walk around
the odors of his feet, his gas. Required
to bend over to him gripped with fear
that I’ll glimpse what’s inside
the dark slit of those boxers