broken beer bottles

her front sidewalk is littered with
broken beer bottles
inside, a four and a two year old
run around on unfinished wood flooring
bare foot, still in pajamas;
I’m asked to teach her safety.
one toddler climbs up and down the counter top
making toast and cheese whiz
cranks the tv
barney sings his purple tunes,
his brother yips for cherrios
as mom and I
try to sit at the table;
I’m asked to teach her behavior skills.
she is on her way to physio-therapy,
a year ago her then boyfriend
pronounced her a slut
and veered his car
into the path of an oncoming train.
I have bad taste in men, she laughs,
shows me her new $7,000 smile;
I’m asked to teach her self esteem.
I go home, make a tuna sandwich
and take my dog for a walk.
it’s ok to be single, I remind myself,
relate to her in the ways that I do
and pay what bills I can.

---

footsteps

cheekbones beamed, creaked with age
mom was proud of her little girl
all that nature blessed her with

adolescence blossomed
with just the right curvature
vivacious personality to match

one too many comments
that she had what it takes
to follow her mother’s footsteps
become a dancer

one too many hand prints
left on her butt from uncle,

and she was soon dressing in
baggy clothes, sloppy sweats.

anything to deter true beauty
nagging family members

imposing
that she carry on tradition
become a dancing stripper

the very last thing she aspired to be

she hinges back on the heel of her chair
cola in hand, suckling on a huge
ripe strawberry

so what did you become?
we ask her, intensely

what else,
she bows her head
peeks through strands of raw, bleach stricken hair

a dancer.