I was cultivated


like a child promised to some dignitary,

in a pen almost large enough to turn in;

taken out for school

and the shampooings I hated.

In class, they tinkered at my speech,

furtive and Cimmerian.

You were adding the bulk you would need,

sex growing to an unsnappable stalk.


We aren’t done:

your smell is on my dress

like a lapful of prawns;

I can feel your tugs at yourself

as if the string were still tied to me.

Somewhere, the constant transmission

of me, naked, stooping to test the bathwater.


You eat your mother’s cooking

and write to other girls.

They scatter, you are not surprised,

and you check the old lines

to see what decoy I’ve grabbed.


You think you will board softly,

that you will surprise me—

but I can still live on your rations,

still have the gills to breathe under your hand.

Copyright © 1999-2017 Juked