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 sh 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