May 5, 1984
was the day i felt clean.
the day my father baptized
me
in a lacy white dress,
when my skirt had risen
and lifted to the top of the
water,
sitting like a lillie pad
over short spindly legs.
nothing could take
that pureness from me.
not even the man i met in my
kitchen
through telephone wires
a few hours later.
the anonymous man
with the raspy voice who
told me
to put a hand on my knee,
slide it up and below my
skirt,
between my thighs
where the heat is warmest
“just like that,” i remember
him saying.
too scared to listen
too polite to hang up
i told him what he wanted to
hear
lied to him as his words
grew breathy,
my body stiff like
petrified wood
breathing shallow, fingers
still.
playing dead
for the girl-eating bear.
