Or more specifically its monster,
long tail whisper
in our swimming pool: in a valley
girl’s mind. Girls, mind
the valley,
its cunts, the dark water,
Jurassic trees’ sweep
late at night—Riot
Grrl Loch Ness is churning.
We towel off, full
frothed, Sweet Valley
Ophelias, who haven’t quite
drowned. No, we float by the usual
suburban fiends—the parent
who uses, the lover/
aggressor who lays in wait
by the lockers, the janitor
who slithers, hey girls show me
your tits. A Yale interviewer rubs
his thumbs under bra
straps, puts his hands on my hips.
From our pool an LA River
is beginning to course. Podge emerges
from pre-teen, grows up heart-first
like some women
just have to do. She loves a man
who tries to kill her.
She slits his face with fingernails;
tries to kill him back. We fish
whole futures from stank
waters, keep monsters fed. Shelter
perversion. Mostly others’. Sometimes
ours. We say nothing’s dead that couldn’t once
be living. Every single fossil out there
once managed to survive.
