it was not the man

she selected from many men

on parole for the same crime

committed against her,

if she tells them

that the cool, rubbery hand

snaking up between her new thighs,

wiping off the wet white blanket

on her stomach, feeding her red

licorice, if she tells them

it was her father

and not this other man

after months of slips-of-the-tongue

about a stranger and his red candy,

they'll call her a liar,

they'll ground her for good

to her yellow house

and her father's cool, rubbery hands.