picking men like my father
LYN LIFSHIN
who could never
hold me, wouldnšt
talk. A handsome
man they said he
loved, but
couldnšt show it.
Men with a dark
ness who blackened
the sun sat alone
at kitchen tables
mourning the dawn
men who left just
as I thought my
touching them meant
I could. I tried
the anesthesia of
words for fingers,
tried giving up
my body, drugged,
to men with their
knives, instruments
that might get thru
and cut out what
needed bandages
like an eye that
wouldnšt shut. But
their metal hooks
me men who masturbate
pushing me from
them begging for
love their blacks
and blues, a begging
bowwl cut off as
an amputated limb that
shrivels loses
its muscles scabs
over hard dead inside
as the wooden boat
the amputee stamps on
scowling men who
couldnt even
stand on their own
see me or hear
anything
