House For Wayward Girls

House For Wayward Girls

The house of wayward girls embraces me, whole
offering hugs, and glasses of bubble wine.
To dull and forget that day, all taken away with one word

Tinkles whisk around, the space of my new life
Philip Glass and his fairy sounds
dishes of greens, spiced and steamed,
rotated hot, on the heat, dug through,
made to come out better.

An octopus necklace, twisted around, place
on my neck, hiding
the mark left, created in a moment of need
it fades…

Boys, we sometimes allow, In,
through the gates, behind the climbing roses.
they come to serve us. Make blackberry pancakes
to provide, extra pairs, of lips to explore
into, through the Silverlake night

~

Outside our home calls, The Echo,
we prepare, sucking on, lollipops grape and peach, a hint of earth,
made with a sign, Not For Children
followed, by stemless goblets, red and white
altered states, bring us closer to the stars
we dress, rouge our lips, cheeks, hearts…
put on tops of lace, just a hint of two rose circles,
nipples, peeking through only to be seen in the right light
and a bit of Cleopatra’s scent to, ensure, our irresistible guile

We giggle, arms linked, and enter,
on stage is a curly haired boy, his Cheshire smile hidden, head down
as he beats, drums, symbol’s, keys on a board
in rhythm, in rhyme with his fellows
he has visited our home, had wine next to the firelight
kissed our lips wet. We own him, he owns us

With potions in hand, in this dark space, this rhythm cave,
we look almost like others, almost
but our light shines a bit, over bright.
i wait for a hand to find me, fingers flexing, calling, please
i wait, it doesn’t come.

Up we climb and visit the boy, girls, stare blank
they know. they know who we are
they can see, smell, taste the difference floating off us, swirling in the smoke air.

We turn, away, a fire is thrown at us, and we cringe, hurrying
back, on the street we eat animal parts
wash it down with more bitters, that leave,
a burning snake, all the way down our vulnerable, soft pink, insides.

~

Away from the house, we are lost, not found
wayward is the truth

It rains, even in the sun, as palms and white dresses, float
by, dulled and willowy, to
the tinkles of sound, strung by string and reed
ring hollow, shallow, brackish as the riverbed I face.

We dance and jump, accidentally exposing, the scar on our chest
flung legs wide, tapping fast, in fashion with others, strangers, all around

Our names are framed and placed in front as to remind, our heads, who,
where, we belong, to, this group, that person, is yours...
yet no long mine, i no longer live in this
sea world of scrub oak, mangrove roots, gardenias in the springtime air,
this, all, is not mine, is not me, for
my name has been erased

I belong only to myself, Inside,
to, and for, a house built of wayward girls