Cousteau’s Daughter
Don’t move, don’t tell
it only hurts because you’re thinking.
Go someplace, some far away place,
and think of clothes & comfort.
Don’t cry out, don’t make a sound
surrender but don’t give in
He says you’re not ten but twenty,
with a body like this, you’re no baby.
But he whispers that word in your ear
baby baby baby
And suddenly you are ten going on twenty,
imagining it’s all a fable in which you smile
little girl-pretty & bite the poisoned apple
that let’s you sleep dreamless
inside the witch’s den.
Skin crawls at a child’s pace
the empty hate inside you slides into place
& you are the girl under glass
not hidden, but examined,
and the shame is
you imagine 4th of July fireworks
red-hot embers flying
into your man-made crowd,
burning and scorching pain away
until all that’s left is you, unashamed,
& some ashes.
Friday night flickers from the TV
black-white-black illuminates his hands
and you hear the cruel chorus
of cheerleader laughs
You see their legs, clean & strong,
kicking into the air & you know
it would never be them, lying here.
You know you will never be a cheerleader
because those glory days never began
& you could never shout with your mouth
open in favor of violent men
There’s no shade of white bright enough
to erase your internal stains.
The girls in pleated skirts are Ivory white,
Crest smiled, Clorox clean.
You will never be clean again.
But you can’t think about that
so you think about
Red on a knife, his blood not yours.
Tumbling through space,
white-noise to silence the demon voice
that breathes inside your ear.
A benevolent sun to burn off his sweat
so you could be dry & warm again,
flannel pajama-ed, tucked into a single bed,
Safe, secure, a warm blanket
pulled up to your neck
The strongest deadbolt known to man –
that’s what you want for birthday.
You begin to drift, tiny lights behind your eyes, a
firefly parade
and some things are known for certain
and some things are imagination
but if flowers can grow in the garden
no matter how dark the house
& lace curtains can cast spider shadows
on the living room wall
then you could be Cousteau’s daughter
and spend your life on a sailing ship
On an ocean bluer than a cheerleader’s eyes
you could swim with the dolphins
& listen to the whale-song lullabyes
& schools of fish could surround you
in a silent swimming pageant
rainbow bodies too graceful & swift
to be captured by any man’s net . . .
Then in the morning, when you’re ten again,
you can count the clovers in your bowl of luck,
coming up short but still believing
in the magical world of leprechauns.
And you’ll wait the for magic.
Wanting, desperately, to learn how to swim.
~ JT Devin