First we laced the women up,
then made a corset for the earth.
Seamstresses pricked holes in skin and pores.
It is only the surface.
It is not a deep hurt.
It will not kill you, will it, Mother,
reconfiguring your organs?
Too Much Too Young
We, she said
in her voice,
want to know how things are,
how it feels to be under a man,
dosed on what you didn’t know
not at my age,
not til now,
not even now.
But we never asked for permission.
But we never asked for it, either.
(inspired by Tony Harrison’s Long distance I, II)
He cried in the strange luxury of the long black car and
just then, he wasn’t Dad anymore
but son. Not man, boy.
And under the grey, young.
I cried more for the future than the passing,
knowing I’d be there,
journeying to journey’s end
with him one car in front.