When my daughter was fourteen
I'd stand outside her bedroom window
in my nightgown and robe, waiting
for the older boys I knew were waiting, too.
Between cigarettes, under a full moon
I'd take in the scent of night-blooming jasmine,
listen to crickets, the crazed buzz of phone wires.
Sometimes I'd pace the unfenced perimeter,
my slippers wicking up the dew. A dog
would bark in a far off backyard,
just once, then yank at its shackle,
a gruesome, chewing sound. I wondered
handbags s how she slept, having drunk of the desperate
elixir of sex, wanting the elegant bastards,
tissot le locle their beautiful chests, hammered gold crosses
dangling from chains around their necks.
She must have dreamed of them, sneaking
through the tarnished bushes, wreckage
in their faces, the keys to their cars and her
tinctured heart jangling in denim pockets.
It was a rare quiet.
I'd watch the stars pour themselves out
along the shingled rooftops, track
the moon shadow of her bike, tattooed
on the fence, as it crawled across the slats.
The hours passed. Fugitive. Raw.
My hands turning blue in the cold.
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