it was an early afternoon
it was an early afternoon, mid-august,
and I took myself to walk along the rocks
in the beaming sun, barefoot. I sauntered
forward, the scent of the Atlantic
sweeping through my nostrils.
I was late for everything
it was refreshing, and I sat,
my back against a sandy slope,
a changed woman.
I turn smiling,
gathering the figure behind me
is Mr. Thomas Idlewild, or a supposed
noble in tailored clothes, searching
for eyes and lips that wish to be upon him. but
instead of a lover's tongue
greeting the rear of my neck and
crawling toward my chin, I am
met with a father's unshaven face,
and crooked teeth that long to devour
a young maiden once again.
my mother once told me every girl marries her father.
but this my mother never knew.
she was old and frail and deceived,
in illusion of their lucid love. and my father,
the sickly sinner witching upon me,
my sickly arms stretched in attempt to drive my
foe out of reach. I struggle helpless,
out of breath, inhaling cigarette