Page 13 - WTPO Vol. VII #5

And there was always the finger
shushed across your father’s lips.
you hoped wouldn’t wake up. Always the sisters
you hoped would wake up
to rescue you
from this pounding
in the middle of the night.
III. You were twelve years old.
In the daytime we made reeds
sightread duets
made melodies with my flute and your oboe.
I didn’t know.
I thought we shared all our secrets.
I remember your fingers, nails gnawed so far down the blood collected
at the cuticles
at the base of the nailbeds.
I used to steal Doublemint gum
from my mother’s purse.
Bring sticks wrapped in shiny silver paper for you to chew
instead of devouring your nails.
You tell me you are angrier at your mother.
She knew
and did nothing.
(continued on next page)
Always the blood
into forbidden places. Always the exhale of a grunt. Always the sisters
after he pressed himself
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