I ignore the time, not at my but at
your peril; I close my fist and strike you,
a bruise ripens around your eyes, your lies,
for everything and more you have coming
to you; at last the truth of my dream screams
stops the lying monuments erected
undetected by your caressing hands,
unprotected by your rough careless hands
as I strive against the memories’ pain
wanting more hours of nothing but peace,
needing more time, less crime, no guilty tears,
“Grandpa loves his little angel, little
Princess,” you say, stinting my sleep to play,
hating the silver grey hairs of coming
death, loving my golden locks’ promise of
life, youth, innocence, smooth skin, naïve sin.
And surely you see your strength weaken now?
Flaccid and limp you lie, ambitionless,
dismissive of my tears, my mission to
greet the new dawn as a virgin once more.
These are the extremes you manhandle so
proudly. You settle for me, eating my
fruit before it rots into womanhood.
You enjoy the bloom, uproot my honor,
which is what you prize above your own wife’s.
For when my beauty flowered despite your
nightly visits to tuck me in and kiss
my trembling lips you held closed to keep me
silent, you stirred the ashes of my loss,
with your promises. Too long I trusted
your hot wet tongue snaking its way into
places I thought dirty and shameful. Too
long you dared what others damned as taboo,
forbidden pleasures ripped from an orphan,
your own child’s child entrusted to your safe-
-keeping. For now you know your time won't last
forever. Those other nights lost in dreams,
lost in my silent screams, “Help me! Stop it!”
You have ploughed many fields, filthy farmer,
until my fertile lands lie barren, dead.
But now a dark harvest grows within me,
for many songs I’ve sung prepare me for
this day of days when my scream dreams will end.
Thus it's great you try to make amends now
as I gladly keep smoothing out your skin
with this cheese grater, don’t cry sad old man,
for it is good and just no wrinkles mar
your brow, your honor, your final whispered,