Albert K. Ashes-Bury Asks Len For Help

You had a gift, you silly girl!
He has not faced
his silly boy yet.

His kind: they strip themselves for you.
They pull on the bottom of skirts—
paw, roll over, clap—coo, come, suckle
on cue. They need feeding, but that’s
easy: no cooking is required—they eat scraps
off the floor—lick your boots—die empty,
martyred. Everyone then wonders
what happened: “You looked so beautiful together! He was

so young!”—his cheeks
sunk, his smile
remembered, your bad meals
buried, though only

with this: the still
silly, now faceless lucky boy.

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