Men

When i was young, i used to
watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down
the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. men are always going somewhere.
They knew i there. Fifteen years old and starving for them. under my window, they would pause,
their shoulders high like the
breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
those behinds,
men.
One day they hold you in the palms,gentle as if you were their last egg in the world. Then they tighten up. Just a little. The first squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little more. The hurt begins. Wrench out a smile that slides around fear. When the air disappears,
Your mind pops,exploding fiercely, briefly,like the head of a kitchen match. shattered.
It's your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exit.
Then the window draws full upon
Your mind, there,just beyond
The swung of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, you will simply
stand and watch.
maybe.

*by Maya Angelou