1958
The child
ran all the way home,
stood on the dark stairs
shaking.
She spoke
to the Great Swollen,
the gut with legs
the maw that swallowed
innocence whole,
complaining of the taste.
The girl asked It,
why do the others
have fathers do I have one
what
is a father?
It slapped her
hard
don’t ask me that
It spat.
It was you, you, you
sticky brat, sour milk-spitter,
all because of you
he hated children
so he left.
The girl wasn't
sure
what hate was but she heard
the bones snap,
began to feel the growing
soft and sharp edged
under the dish
of bruises.
So part of the girl left
while the rest stayed to tend
the black seed that kept her alive.
~April 2013
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