Red. She
dreams red every night,
veiled
moans and muffled screams drip
black and
grey; dirty scars, fresh gashes.
A kiss on
the forehead,
her
disheveled mother, burdened by
sins of
manhood. Rumpled notes earned
with stains
of forsakenness, safe inside
the pencil
box. Skimpy legs uncertain
on a path
yet unknown, hurrying
before the
first bell.
She knows.
Words unkind, labels cruel.
The whore’s
daughter,
teachers
call her. Confusion unbridled
of late.
Define whore, she says.
She has her
mother, scores of aunts
and
camaraderie of other skimpy legs,
laughter,
sobs, fights and hugs;
A family.
Orange
turns to night, the street
festive
with colours of hope,
whispered
secrets of lust and loathing,
