Sugarloaf

In Sugarloaf, in the center of 102
acres, her twenty-three inch body
watched trees grow, saw streams
flow below the earth, heard wet
sugar dripping from branches where
whispering birds shot from waterfall
to pine.

A poem always has rape in it.
Incest.
Molestation crawling from the walls.
Anger scrawled in a dark place, in a poem.

When she turned, I didn’t answer her gurgle.
Her white skin, pasting her body together,
tightened as she smiled.
And I smiled. What is this?
Everyone needs peace.

Yes, from the fear in a hollow place, in a poem.
Her syrupy body glimmers in the daylight.
Her eyes glaze over as the fog creeps around
her cheeks whining red.
She licks my nose, nodding her football head
when I laugh.
Her small hands clasp my hair, ripping it.
I stare at her lightbulb body.
How could anyone not love her body?
How could any man love her body?
She is my baby, my daughter dripping
sweet from her mouth like sap from leaves.
Her eyes are blue-grey like the pewter sky.
I don’t doubt for a minute that she loves her life.
Her grandfather blasts Gatorade cans off fallen
logs where I spot deer tracks.
Her grandmother wipes her diamond chin
as white slop flows like a river.
Why can’t life be like the forest, she crinkles
her question, her forehead growing old
like her mother.
I flatten my face in the icy creek
that dries up in seconds. The trees fall.
Birds boomerang into oak trunks and crash
to the sad earth.

I am still mesmerized by her body,
its picturesque innocence dripping
sweet square sugarloaf, I almost cannot
hear the roar of the monster
eating the mountain
filled with rape, incest
molestation in the dark silent squirrel holes.

by LisaAnn LoBasso

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