Concrete Streets
My ladylike mother, raising a blue-jeans daughter
No dresses for my back-to-school shopping-
After school shortcut with Amy, my friend
Grassy flowered path, trees and birds
For my autumn birthday, I give myself
the new Black Stallion book from the library
So eager to take it home, fall into the pages
Still, at the final bell, I wait for Amy
Best friends are supposed to wait...
But minutes lag as the yard empties
I am alone, as I leave
Our shortcut is deserted, silent
The birds do not sing today
A footstep crunches behind, then
A stranger, tall to my short self
His junior high days long over,
With a sour smell, a greasy smile
Immobilized, I feel my pulse beat
In my throat, clutching my Black Stallion book
"Hey, what's your name, baby?," he slurs
With drunken breath and crawling eyes,
Then his arm slides around my
almost-fourteen-year old waist, and his foul stink
Whispers in my ear, "Oh baby, what a body"
I don't think, don't plan
I just run
But he is there, pushing me down as his hands
grope my almost-fourteen-year-old breasts
From somewhere deep rises rage-
HIT HIM! HIT HIM! in giant flashing red letters
My fists, smashing into his arm, my voice, unlocked,
"Go away, GO!"
And he does suddenly go; my saving grace,
Being unladylike-
When I make it home, on shaking legs, my mother
scolds me for the tears in the knees of my new bluejeans
Which cost so much money! I say nothing
And my Black Stallion book is gone.
The next day, from school, I take the long way
The concrete streets of populated protection
I can't tell Amy why I won't take our shortcut
I can't tell even my own mother
So she finds other friends to walk home with
When the book comes overdue, the librarian chastises me
For my lack of caregiving and responsibility
I swallow salty-hot tears, and borrow money
To pay the fine, for I can not return
what is lost.
9/23/18
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