Good Girl

It starts soft—a hymn stretched thin

across the headlights of a truck on an empty road.

Then, it alters. As a child, —half prayer, 

half warning: I was an angel. Yet, I remember

pressing my lips to the mouth of the villain 

on that static on the screen. When I was older, I left 

it all on Valentine’s Day. I stood alone, staring
at Venus at The MET, her belly is a full moon 

above a graveyard, Cupid overhead

like an afterthought. Another night 

arrives, a shadow of the same old song. I crave 

the affirmation: good girl.  So tell me to undress,

as Titian’s waiting Venus, tell me to wait
at the window—lover who left 

his wife, tuning his Spanish guitar, his voice 

is the ocean’s blue-dark mouth, empty 

of fish and shipwrecks. Tell me again, I’m still 

a girl, mouthing the old prayers and cupping my hands. 

A story in Islam goes: a prostitute dipped her shoe 

into a well for a thirsty dog. One good deed and God’s grace fell 

around her in warm rain. I just want that one drop of mercy

on a long stain. But I can’t fast on holy days; I’m bound

by this hunger. This god feeds on meat fat, sardines, black

olives, and the sap of rotted pears. I devour so much

whole: bodies, skin, and their sharp seeds. I am uncontained. 

The rind is the rule, bitter and unbreakable—

promises of lush, hidden interiors. Now, even the dawn 

pulls its hand back. If only goodness were mine to claim.