I tell my girl
corralling my sadness
for another place-time
Who wants to tell
a child she is limited
by her physiognomy
to a lifetime of
servitude and struggle?
You’ll go far
though in every place she will be
a vessel
for someone else’s idealized interpretation
of a few scraps
parchment, bound
by tradition into
inescapable expectations
Looks don’t matter
though breasts will be
the first and last
of her that some men
Notice. Not
how brilliantly her mind
shines
You are fierce and strong
which of course means
she’s a bitch, though
didja get a look at that ass?
I will protect you
as best I can, but
my needle and thread
cannot mend a
broken dream
Poets of G+ prompt: write a poem in which everything is lies
for National Poetry Month
