Prostitute

 

You are not so far removed
from me that we are unmistakeable.
We both like pretty things.
Your father beat you mercilessly.

I, stripped of this coat, these shoes, standing naked
beside you, could be your sister.
We do not speak. Or make eye contact.

When I was a child,
I almost drowned. The water wanted me,
my mother said. I imagine myself still,
in the murky tide. Weightless. Disembodied.

You, who never had that hand
to pull you out.

 

—Lauren Mitchell

 

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