OK, <br />one last poem <br />or whatever this is. <br />This one about the woman <br />running the garage sale <br />in Venice, CA, <br />who told me, <br />a stranger, <br />who wasn’t even buying <br />any of her stuff, <br />that when she was a girl <br />her father and two brothers <br />regularly f...ed <br />her <br />and that her whole self worth <br />rode on <br />how good a f... she was. <br />And as she told me this <br />her Korean-American gf <br />stood and listened <br />when she wasn’t collecting <br />cash <br />for household <br />goods. <br /> <br />I wondered <br />why she felt safe enough <br />to tell me, <br /> a stranger, <br />all this, <br />though I knew the answer <br />perfectly well. <br /> <br />There’s a network <br />of us <br />out there, <br />we don’t wear dog tags <br />but we know <br />who we are, <br />and occasionally <br />we trade <br />war stories, <br />though we aren’t <br />(our molesters would really prefer <br />we didn’t) <br />supposed to talk about it, <br />not even if they’re <br />dead <br />to us.<br /><br />Percy Dovetonsils<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-87/
