The Failing Waltzes

Backtracking to past favorites. The  
novel by Beatrix Strange, "Sir Ms.",  
about a girl not much younger than I,  
plunged into prostitution via her father.  
Oh those days, in the makings of  
devastation, when evil longed to be worse.  

I remember being frightened, intrigued,  
aroused, lonely. Those crisply chilled summer-
like nights in the fall, Benjamin Hyde crept up  
behind me an fluidly sunk into my belly, humming  
Miller's melodies in my ear. The coarse, deadened  
grass on my knees, the hollow hum of his inching
release.  

Aunt Mirium's engagement at 73, the hope it brought  
to simple, humble heathens like Benjamin and I. The  
sterile plate at Mother's house as she individually  
placed peas at the center, 'Presentation is everything,  
fuckers.' she'd whisper from her dark kitchen. She  
never did turn on the lights.  

The carousel at the carnival, with Judy, her mother  
kept herself together, she didn't sew her children's private-
parts up and closed. Disorder. I grieved. No more needs  
to be spilled on that matter.

My younger siblings with their hearts in their diapers,  
even at 6. They should have been learning, like me. I  
grew out of my dreams.

Not all are favorites of mine, certainly not of yours. Not  
all are pleasant tales of seduction, torment, faith, and a  
roast. I've learned to lie for smiles stranger than yours.

But all, reader, all things said and done here are true.