Lord Licorice

I made them love me

the only way I knew how,

tongue dry from compliments,

throat choked from burying

my grimace with a grin

like I’d open my legs to

their bald spots and beer bellies

and like it

as if to thank them for their hand

cupping my elbow and brushing

my breast — as if, if not 

for my age, the odds

of me accepting these illicit

advances were five in six —

they weren’t, but I played

the game so often and 

so hard the board lost

its print and the pieces 

their grip. The dice rolled

and I woke up sliding

helplessly down sugary

squares — their eyes rheumy 

with child-like glee

as they picked me up

and put me down wherever

they wanted.

•

And all I, Mama Gingertee,

all I could do was smile.