Doing the Work of a Bullock, You are Cut in Half
A blossom for the plucking hardship
sight stinging
by the night’s fire
you must stay awake
or not eat the next day, not have a sari
or the red rouge.
Never with a doll or book
you listen to crickets
from a neighbor’s tree
or coughing near the road
just like a little bird
twisted, cramped and held down.
Envisioning who nears
you drag smoke
from a rolled cigarette
hair pricking upright
on your scalp.
Holding an oil lamp, you climb
with him through a hole
behind a straw screen
the steps
cut in a thin pocked log
Dust from the ceiling
falls on your bed.
Only the mud walls
listen.
***
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Photo by Mark Robinson/Flickr