I. in this house: sliding glass doors and deadbolts

Nothing says hostage like door and deadbolts.
At fourteen, I acquired a penchant for sheer shirts

and mini shorts. You were drinking vodka before dinner
hit the table and by 8:00, faced down inside the only queen

that took this house. I won’t lie – by 8:30, I splayed a boy
who thought I was fractured. His truth of me ultimately meant

nothing, like anyone’s god. By 10:00, I was back beneath
the sheets I own, but you’ve got one hell of a nose. Off

went my face. On went the deadbolt. You never gave me
much credit: in one week’s time I sniffed out the screwdriver

and ruptured that lock like any good scab. When someone is lashed
into their own skin, a proper spread is the only way to slip the cuffs clean off.

© First published in Thirteen Myna Birds and included in my chapbook, 309.81 (dancing girl press, 2011)

One comment

  1. I read and re-read this poem. Just today, my counselor told me that poetry lets you see into someone’s soul. This left me feeling sad. It is devastating. I hope your soul is not held hostage by that door and deadbolt. What a powerful poem.

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