After 30 years of intimacy
not always
but often enough
late at night
in the dark
during the after talk
they tell me.
"My uncle"
"My cousin"
"My coach"
"My frat big brother"
"My sister’s boyfriend"
Always someone they knew.
Forget stranger danger.
Then their voices change
in the dark
and they are boys again.
"I was 10."
"I was 8."
"I was 14."
"I was 12."
“And he told me never to tell.”
That is not when they cry.
Only at this …
"They already knew and nobody helped me."


Salon.com
Comments
This says it all.
Bad poetry is a gift from above, which angels squirt down when they run out of love.
r