Deana Prock, 04/12



You lie there knowing
you made this bed,
and it is yours and no one else’s.
Isn’t that what your mother always
told you?
Well that, and always wear clean
underwear, which is just laughable
under the circumstances.
You tried to explain it all to her once-
your sad, disapproving mother.
But words have an inadequacy with her.
Nothing penetrates.
How do you describe that at first
it was just a game- a warm place to hide
and reminiscent of the
salty sweet smell of her breasts-
heavy with milk and repression.
That’s what your psych said anyway.
The third one she sent you too- the one
that smelled like garlic and said maybe
you really wanted to be a boy. What
you really wanted was to tell her how
they live to put it in your mouth
and lean on the trigger.
They always want to know
what you are made of-
curious to see if you will blink-
or just close your eyes. Or maybe cry,
even if just a little.
Last night, you just held your hands up-
signaling surrender.
Oh! How they love surrender- and of course
everyone knows you hide a little white flag
in your purse.
After, you waited around
for cab fare and called it a night,
crawling into that bed you make and unmake.
Maybe, you spend too much time in solitary-
staging your scene and
wondering if they should find you
on the couch
on the floor
on the bed.

Promote. Poetry.
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