Your mom said good girls don’t go there. Bummer.
Last year you and four other girls dropped out

pregnant. Now you do, often; your daughter
snoozing in her crib, your hips crotched, girl scout

skirt pulled to your lips. Charmed, I’m sure; you smiled
at my tongue’s path from your C-section scar

down through phat flesh. You got, “daddy defiled
me,” inked above your ass. Bedroom-boudoir

with your bizarre mix-tapes. Cigar-sized spliffs.
Death was the breath that you sucked from my lungs

as I dived face first through you. Flesh slapped. Skin
bitten. Fingered and fucked. I miss those whiffs.

Scent of lunacy. Reckless as cum. Tongue’s
crow. We say gang-bang. Your mom says love-in.