I used to think I could ignore
the sex lives of men, how they
fucked the willowy young assistants,
sweet faces plastered on websites
in a mockery of representation.
If my colleagues were brilliant
at deal-making and showed me
specious respect, I could claim
I didn’t know about young pussy.
But I knew about young pussy
because I was once young pussy,
ogled by teachers, fondled by
my father’s customers, my friend
raped by her stepfather, my friend
raped by her older brother, rumors
in my town of even younger girls
not talked about, so the only thing
I could do was be vigilant in defense
of my young pussy from predators
everywhere. But I would dream
teenage sex dreams about rape,
awake sweating with arousal, sick
with shame, as if force was the only
way young pussy was allowed
to feel pleasure. Now my daughter
is young pussy, and I dream
fantasies of violence
against the men, the elites,
the President of this country.