I slip my hand
inside my underpants
rubbing the little stone between
my legs because it feels good.
Over the paper, over glasses,
his eyes go from glancing to bulging.
He stands, left hand
tearing the paper from his right
to the floor.
He steps toward me, then stops,
stepping backwards
looking out the window.
And says to the glass,
"What are you doing?
Stop it."
I slide my hand to my lap,
put down my book,
looking at my slippered feet
as I pad to the half-lit bathroom.
On the closed toilet,
I sit wondering what'd I do wrong?
--to touch
myself, to feel good, must be wrong,
if my father said to stop.
Muffled voices,
then a rustle comes from the hallway.
My mother
with her long neck
and blonde, blonde hair
comes gently into the bathroom
bringing with her, the light.
She kneels before me,
left hand on my shoulder,
right hand coming up with a tissue
to meet my cheek.
Lips stretch in a half-smile
and rocking me slightly, she says,
"Honey, it's okay to touch yourself."
I gulp, "How do you know about it?"
She says, tilting her head,
"Everybody does it, baby."
I stare in her eyes, my eyes opening big.
"You just need to do it in private."
I curl into her then,
feeling small and protected
and understood.
Outside the door, the evening news drones
on into the quickening night
and my father clears his throat
as if he's choking.
All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©
