I have never forgotten the night
my father looked at my body and saw only
another fuckable woman living
under his roof.
Women are places
where men put things:
bits of flesh
intimate and embarrassing,
emotions too unmasculine to carry openly
like a purse. Demeaningly useful,
better to deny.
Like landfill next to a gleaming city:
the spires shine best in the dying light
as trash heaps heat
to stink their worst.
The oldest profession: Blaming the object coveted
for our own desire.
Did anyone check under Adam’s fig leaf
the day the snake took itself off for a walk
to talk from a tree?
Adam got to blame Eve for the naked
lust lodging in his eyes
while Eve’s eyes got wide
and finally clear.
that on the night my father saw how
droit du seigneur coupled with a daughter
in the house
made its own brutal but algebraic
he resolved to resolve his equation with fury instead,
disemboweling his self-hatred
over top of me. Preferable
thought he needed rage to drown
the night a man saw not his child
but a gash
broken open to the world.
[featured image via]