by Val Dering Rojas

Please don’t put on
those white shorts today,
one size small. They make
your tanned legs
look so good. Your hips too.

Please don’t lie to your father,
say you need something for school:
a notebook,

He already knows
its the sweets
you want:

Please don’t bend down
like that today.
He’s going to run his dirty
cobra hand
across your thirteen year old
as you kneel to pick a box
of Ticonderogas.

The child brain will think its
your father, playing some kind
of sick trick,
until you turn around
and see:
the hair, stringy
t-shirt, holey
smile, filthy.

Please don’t put on those shorts today,
because he will be there too,
both of you craving
the same thing.

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