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.
Men are always
They knew I was there.
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
One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world.
They tighten up.
Just a little.
First squeeze is nice.
A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness.
The hurt begins.
Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear.
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match.
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.
No keys exist.
Then the window draws full upon
There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.
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