ix.

now i’ve an image of you
in my head.
he bends you over a chair,
he does not ease
him self into you     he pushes.

eight-years old & opened like that?

my story is more silent,
drugged in its remembering
though it is still
alive.

i say, at the end: i never once thought of you that way.
no. i never felt more sure,
giving my self to someone.

you are / you were
enough that he was erased, moment-
arily forgotten. what power
you had & did not know—

it was as if you were already inside of me
& i had just noticed your presence,
called you in
to being.