Good Girl
It comes soft—a hymn stretched thin
across the headlights of a truck on an empty road.
Then, it alters. As a child, —half prayer,
half warning. I was an angel. Yet, I remember
pressing my lips to the mouth of the villain
on that old Panasonic screen. When I was older, I left
everybody on Valentine’s Day. I stood alone, staring
at Venus at The MET, her belly, a full moon
above a graveyard, and Cupid overhead
like an afterthought. Another night
comes, a shadow of the same old song. I crave
the words: good girl. So tell me to undress,
as Titian’s Venus, tell me to wait
at the window—lover who left
his wife, tuning his guitar, his voice
the ocean’s dark mouth, empty
of fish and shipwrecks. Tell me again that
I am still a girl, mouthing the old prayers.
A story in Islam goes: a prostitute dipped her shoe
into a well to aid a thirsty dog, and God’s grace fell around her
in warm rain. I just need one drop of mercy on a long stain.
But I can’t fast on holy days. I’m bound to this hunger,
This god feeds on meat fat, sardines, black olives,
and the sap of rotted pears. I devour so much
whole: bodies, skin, the sharp seeds. I am uncontained.
The rind is the rule, bitter and unbreakable—
a promise of lushness hidden inside. Now, even the dawn
pulls its hand back. If only goodness were mine to claim.