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|Daddy's Little Girl
Your father holds you, naked, up for sale
at his own private auction,
like a slavemaster, kneck bent,
already counting his money.
Working your jaw, he shows your teeth, grinning
to himself, seeing how well he's taken
care of you, strapping fine tongue and all.
Such a prize.
With his guiding hand, he rasies your arm.
Yes, you are his precious, his one,
poised to answer all his questions, fill all his empty pockets.
Such a smart girl, he nods.
With fist full of hair, he turns you about,
leaving no morselled bit unexposed.
He knows your toll, every mouthful.
Such a catch. Such a catch.
You are the world to him. The compass that provides
a read on his success. A treasure possessed and cherished.
His only magic against the hole of his inescapable life.
Sweet virgin fair.
For each of the years since your birth
you have rehearsed yourself within this staged
and private function, this public rope trick rigged from the start.
Daddy1s little girl. And
your hate pours out like menstral blood
wanting only to flush away all vestages of seed,
wishing nothing to grow that reminds, afraid
nothing will grow. Or remain.
But he knows the worth of you
and has written it with his own two hands
in rows and columns, into meticulously balanced sums.
Absolutely accountable. Still,
as you step from the creeking stairs
away from this time-stopping burlesque,
you wish, briefly as a single breath, that someone else
would have bought you, soul and all;
or that your legs, so long and well displayed,
would have been as strong as advertised.
Ah, but the price.