uncle urged his first niece.

father frenched his only child,

tongues tickled loose teeth or

empty spaces where they would grow.

they asked,

do you know how?

want to learn?

“no,” whimpered everygirl.

everygirl had a story:

obscure wanton musings,

pieces of her misplaced in

mouths of blood.

eight years old,

(and grandmother said, “in a visceral dream”)

she’d come down stairs for milk.

fancies of

first kisses no longer pink nor pretty.

lips delicately defiled.

her secret foretold:

everyman’s mouth tasted relatively the same, while

half-empty glasses of milk curdled.