Talking About Boys to My Daughter
by Bob Bradshaw
My daughter sits in front of me.
She has had her first leakage of blood,
stretching to her ankle. Her mother
has asked me to speak to her.
She slumps in a chair, embarrassed.
Do you know what boys are like?
She blinks. They're more dangerous than TB.
Their hands are dirtier than a coal miner's.
Their minds are bulls in a narrow chute,
the gate closed behind them.
Their minds travel in one direction.
"What are you talking about?" she asks.
"My friend Katie is waiting. Can this wait?".
I nod. Next time I'll mention that a girl
sitting should always keep her knees,
like hands in prayer, together.
BOB BRADSHAW lives in California, a state drifting towards Asia. To prepare for the docking Bob is reading more Japanese poetry and looking forward to Spring's cherry blossoms. Recent work of his can be found at Halfway Down the Stairs, The Rose and Thorn, Chantarelle's Notebook and Cha.