FOR NESSA

left the windows open,
and from inside,
I hear the little girl
pounding, pounding on the
dirty sheets
ten times her size.
she beat the filth away
with a wooden club
made solely for
this purpose., this ritual
of little girls,
handed down by dead mothers,
they must learn
how to crush innocence
to get to the grime,
the malice that
hides deep
clings hard
to thread and skin,

the mothers said
what do you need
of this innocence,
just a brand-new sheet,
better break it in yourself
before the others get to it,
their soot feels fine
on top of yours.

the pounding,
slowly becomes
a muted song
tender to her ears
notes she carry
with her

to old age

THE LITTLE GIRL POUNDING
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