You’ve been had by only one
and recite him,
wear him
like a starched hymen pinned
to your breast.


In conversation you remind me
that I’ve preserved
few sanctities,
no purity
the day I outgrew your arms.


I am not trying to find my way back.


I’ve heard you whisper
sentences incomplete
with the words that frighten you,
the way naked women
make you nervous.


You keep house
but are no constant.
In secrecy,
like a saint’s third miracle,
you believe.


I did not know you
the night you preached
some female politic
to rid my womb
of its ninth month,
uncommitted.


You said it made you less.


I can’t help but refuse
to be as your proper
left finger tied in gold,
An indent
       forever second
       to her first.