am i a girl?

There is nothing I am less sure of

than my being a girl

I am shouldering a pervert

who is pulling on a pink silk nightgown

Within my mind

I am a scaly old man

with tobacco yellowed fingertips and fisherman whiskers

slinking through the lingerie section

Not a girl at all

but a mosquito, something sicker

Suis-je une fille?

Or am I just a gnashing wolf

in sheep’s clothing?

I do not feel ladylike

unless crumpled and bloodied

I do not feel like a girl

until forced to be

by the drunk man calling to me

from his honda civic

and on my walk home

I still only see lavender smog

and my mother’s angry footsteps in the snow

Will I be a wife? Am I a girl

or a beast?

With sopping wet jaws

that stain the nightgown pink,

it is still damp from the shower

But is that water

dripping down my spine

or the blood of the girl

whose skin I am wearing?

[ photo by Matt Cunningham ]