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All the Silent Girls

I realize now

decades later

they were the abused ones, the misused ones,

the girls in the back seats of cars,

willing, hungry, any attention would do.

What boys called, with a self-satisfied wink:

easy, when what they were was

lost.

Most of them I lay you odds

struggling for air

under the thumb, the boot,

of a distant father, sinister uncle,

stern boyfriend.

Silent,

for none would listen.

Silent.

For whom would believe.

 

All the sad girls, the voiceless girls,

carrying unseen yokes on

their frail backs

to the end of their days,

then down,

powerless,

down

into their uneasy graves.

 

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Writer and Poet

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Tricia McCallum

Always be a poet. Even in prose.
Charles Baudelaire.

In essence I am a storyteller who writes poems. Put simply, I write the poems I want to read.[…]

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