Woven in traffic
By Peauladd Huy
Rule of this jungle:
as in smog-smothered
scream trapped alerting
a deadly capture the pack has turned
stoic like humans still have no one word for. Just listen.
The rip in her
cry collecting her body afterward.
Now she belongs to the broken
everything before its time. Too early, too fast
to comprehend the first time, after he pried
away the soda can. Now it is a signal she knows
nothing sweet is to last
forever in this new home. After sugar’s taken away, the cries
dammed by hands, too big for the tiny faces –
now found filling up behind hidden doors, like little angels crushed
beneath the weight of some drug, no longer know where
it really hurt. Everywhere it hurt.
All sign of damage ebbs its way to that first wound
has yet to heal up before anymore
pierces through and through. Any day, it’s no easier.
This human shape with its make-believe part of
a woman: one part is broken, all parts are broken
once more wouldn’t have made any difference. Once in any girl’s
lifetime still stretches
its heavy hands out toward some master
key and, the lock’s still knocked open at will.
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