Dirty little
girl
scabby knees,
tangled curls
nervous nail
biter
darting eyes
don’t land
waiting for
the violent hand
To strike - words
to tear.
I needed
food,
Stole, from
playmates’ mothers,
Whole milk quickly
poured,
From thick
bottles
shaped like
women
A brief cool
antidote.
Trembling,
in open fridge doors,
Wiped my
lips and lied,
Waiting for
the anger
To arrive.
The mothers
knew
I did not
want
To go home.
The library
lady
Fed me books
Thick slabs
of smooth pages
Encyclopedias
- rainforest to Antarctic
Bees,
butterflies, penguins,
Elephant
rampages.
She gave to
me
All that I
could carry.
Kipling,
Steinbeck, Poe
At close, before
she locked the door,
She’d say, “Oh,
here’s one more.”
She knew
I did not want
To go home.
Miss Welner,
fifth-grade goddess
Let me stay
Put things
away, pick up the room,
Bang erasers
free of chalk
Clouds of
dust soared aloft
Or
nervousness made me cough
She listened
while I talked
Leaking hurried words
I told her everything,
Made her
bear my witness.
When my
words
Choaked me
more than chalk,
She watched
me draw -
My father as
the Minotaur,
My whole
mean little life -
Then talk
some more
When she had
to
Lock the
door.
She knew
I did not
want
To go home.
