by Kia Groom
In darkened theatres I split violent
& open wide this sick-sweet bag of treats.
The candy boy sticks scented fingers deep
inside, & gropes for something saccharine–
between my thighs I hold the icy drink.
The curtains raise & I snap bubblegum
the hue of flesh-light in my father’s room.
A boy’s hand takes my skirt hem hostage &
I breathe pleas into soft pink rubber sphere:
ur really pretty babe, I swear, u r
he said this: ur so fuckin sex c girl–
just girl & not my name, but who has time
for courtship when my body is this hot,
when all my holes are plastic pockets lined
with Grade A Vulvateen all silky slick?
I let this boy do things he wants & watch
the girls on screen unfurl their mutant limbs,
a freakish blend of flesh, all breasts and legs.
I snap the gum. I think of children’s toys.
How somewhere in a factory a girl
is hollowing a plastic baby head
in case of choking. How the boys would light
my Barbie dolls on fire, a perfect pyre
of melting mammaries, how this boy believes,
he owns this flesh, his fingers creeping,
bathed in light from six-foot
celluloid cunt.
Φ
Your little sister is ripping phrases from magazines and books to use for her Mother’s Day collage card. She has space for one more phrase. Which do you choose?
Now she was cutting through traffic to pick up the boy that was not her own, a boy she had not known long enough to even consider being hers, yet he was.
You were not the only mom there.