The Shame We Teach Our Daughters
Makeshift erotica stretches between fingertips, sticky with beer and breath and sweat
You take ownership with a look your eyes read a language of body parts and smiles I hear my mother’s voice at my neck, teaching shame carving it into the backs of my eyelids dipping my hands in hot wax I make a mould of womanly morality
A mould in of forgotten limbs and hands like these on my waist, hot hands on moving flesh, plaster cast captures pitted stomach and sweat beaded on forehead, neck
I cut myself out of the wax into non-perishable body parts and with a tasteless currency of glances and touches and stares I sell off each limb
And hear my mother bartering for a body I no longer want back
Katie Clarke is a poet and playwright in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Her work has appeared in various literary journals including Northbound and Notable, Thimble Lit Mag and Yolk Literary, and her chapbook 'Light Leaks' is published with Dancing Girl Press. When she's not writing, Katie spends her time reading, riding her bike and drinking warm beverages.
