Conversion
Thirteen,
And my mother -
Afraid that I might grow
To love women -
Made me stuff my small self
Into a skirt too short
For bending over,
And piled me precariously
On towering heels.
Spikes she called them,
And spikes they were,
Each step a stab
Into all that I was
And could not name.
And she made me walk
The hallway, up and down,
Twitching my ass
To her direction.
And if I could not sway
To her satisfaction,
If I walked like the man
I would one day be,
With the yardstick lashed me
Until the backs of my legs
Bare beneath the high hem,
Broke and bled,
Small thin trickles
Down small thin thighs.
Now I am grown to manhood,
(With a man in my bed)
And my mother shrieks on Facebook:
"Protect the children."