by Amber Decker
Advice for my Unborn Daughter
Exist meaninglessly, blond fountain!
Here--wear this leather collar!
Here--carry pieces of coal and
five hundred dollar perfume in your purse
S t r e t c h synthetic guts on
Craft a necklace of visible scars (easy on the eyes, please.)
Cut yourself if you feel dead inside.
Sit and watch the waterfall of your hot life.
Light red candles in your room,
let the draperies flame.
Worship shadows (because they outnumber your friends.)
Suck lots of dick, not just one! (Bathe yourself
Eat like a pig and suck on sugar pills and coffee.
Learn to see the world with two fingers
down your throat. (Sometimes you have to taste
your lessons twice
to really understand.)
Remember to: bat false eyelashes,
drop the fuck word like a mantra,
keep your stereo cocked and loaded
and your music REAL loud!
And at eighteen, you will be able to stare your father down
and unashamed speak little words
full of helium and honey,
full of self,
the most powerful--No. Trust. Hate. Death. Love?
He tells me that he could be David in the lion's pit
and the metaphor makes me smile.
I cringe when he takes papers and plastic baggie from his pocket.
He rolls a joint, and I say nothing.
I scrape my nails across tree bark with the
cold dryad sensibility it takes
to allow him to simply exist.
Later, it will be acid and ecstasy
and cocaine and meth and heroin
and phone calls promised that never come.
I watch his van fade against the night
in a backwards birth,
but he is back at 3am
with a need a knife
and a dark place I cannot fill.
I am eighteen and small inside. He is twenty-two
with hands that are rough and big
like New York is big
like God is big
and I am sure it is easy to be so big
with me underneath on my belly in the snow
and his teeth in the soft skin of my neck asking
Do I like it?
Do I like it now?