Later you asked, “What are you?” Your sister’s
child? “What are you?” Did you know that the Hex,
what I called these scars, had left their horrors
cut in me? Before puberty and sex
I thought you were hairless, too; but, hunkered
in the store’s bathroom, I was unprepared
as you unbuttoned your cut-up, tortured
jeans. I didn’t have hair, “down there.” I stared
as you straddled the toilet. The Hex vexed.
Yes: what was I? Neither two-heart nor queen.
“Babe not mine, elves stole/ you in the moonshine.”
Stolen? I waited for my turn. Perplexed,
you glanced then gawked at the scars between
my hips; ten infernal marks meaning, “mine.”