Backside plastered on an old wooden desk.
Beneath her uniform skirt
her nakedness rests
on engravings
of generations past.
Her legs are swinging
her tie is loose
hair tumbles over her face;
she doesn't hesitate,
she's done this before
where
raging teenage hormones
and sweat
evaporates above the classroom-
they breathe in sex and
exhale common sense
though
there never was any to begin with.
Perhaps her uncle took that from her too
Like the money he begs her mother for
every Thursday afternoon
and promises to repay
every Sunday-
for the past 11 years.
He finds some mason work to do,
or drives
a "back-o" on Friday morning
yet
somehow
never has the means
to clothe his six "nagar pickney" backs
or even pay to
plait "dem pickey head dem"
but
her mother
lightly coloured-
he thought-
has acquired all the means
from a man-
even lighter than her-
whose only support is
as a last name on her birth certificate.
I pity her
for not knowing better:
though her grandmother
who supposedly died
clutching her Bible to her chest
knees pressed
to the concrete floor
crying to her Lord
pleaded on her last breath
that God would intervene
and save her gran'child
raised her since six.
Her grave must be quaking
with rage.
She's just a teenage girl-
just,
a teenage girl-
and
her words are
canine like-
sharp insults like teeth
a tiger's stare
a bear-like pounce
ready to rip your extensions out
but-
she breathes easy
when a "him" comes around
and
"he" controls them
like a puppet master,
he pulls their strings
whispers in their ears-
and they obey;
hands and fingers slip
where teacher says they ought not to,
stifled moans disrupt
the back of the classroom-
and you sit still;
not praying that you would
never have to deal your card that way;
but wondering when your bosom
would ever be swollen enough
to attract that sought of attention
-indefinitely.
Post a Comment