Hundreds for June

I have pictures of myself
at fourteen, posing a serious face
with bare and conical breasts, in a pink room,
and for some reason,
a long necklace tied around my hips.
There are hundreds of them.

I sent some to a boy a year ago
who was twenty-six,
he told me they were sexy
and wrong; replying with
an angry pillar of focused blood
and I thought: the product
captured me perfectly.

Once unsexed, a willful
little monument
who sat at tables with old men
and knew she’d argue
better without breasts;
then bleeding, the incredible lament
forecast from years of watching
women squirm under men
with their eyes closed and
coming regardless.

So, I was not surprised
to retrieve a daughter
from a tunnel, with a dark plum crown
who tore me apart
between the shaking stalks of my legs.

Named for the hot month before mine,
the head came through
all blue, until you cried,
followed by the incredible flush;
of pink you’ll wear for life.

When you are older, June,
when the eyes feel like
they’re all on you
that’s god; not men, or women;
you must know,
that grand voyeur is you.


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