Footnote, Part II

II

You would take me home
But to begin with, a promise of glittering trifles
If I would let you in and down, tracing the bars
Down past demurral or lisping protests
The seams that shake and unroll into twisting avenues
Streets peopled by questing fingers
Who would, in time, climb over the cotton pickets
Over and up
Spitting the after-drips of coughing sips
Down lines of doves and smiling babies
Teething a ragged smile
Out behind a field of shattered gold and feathers.

You took me home.

Followed by the clutch-thud of the passenger door
Over the painted lines and throbbing curbs
I sank down through the parlor and clutched at fronds of furniture
To slow my descent to the upstairs washroom
Where I would rattle and gasp and practice silent complaints
Into a hot bath
Wondering what lessons would come of this new capacity of mine
Your gift, your trifle:
Whore

This only as an aside, of course; a mere addendum to the more pressing question
Of how best to lose my skin in a pit of scalding sandalwood and lavender.

I was an ugly child.