In the View-Master

Nobody asked her
why she still wet herself
sometimes as a child

past the age of toilet
training, why it seared
out and down her legs

like a chemical or a rash
of fire ants. And even if
she’d wanted to confide

in someone, she did not know
how: threats had been made
and hung in the air,

following her like a dark
new twin, an eerie walking
doll, like a plastic double.

She pulled her panties back on
at the sound of Shh, one finger
silencing her lips. Just like

a doll her eyes closed as she
was placed on the table— both
the neighbor boy who cleaned

the yard; and later, the new
uncle showing her a game
they called playing doctor.

1 Comment


  1. Shh. Like the poem warns. But it is masterly in its description of its content. A superior synecdoche. :)

    Reply

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