What Little Girls Learn

Once I drove a car to the fields past the town, ran out of gas.
I got out and walked. Thirty years later, still walking 
at the border of dusk
Because I cannot tell lies.

What little girls learn:
Be pretty, show cleavage once you have it.
Be polite, don’t argue for your own sake.
Smoke cigarettes in private.
It’s the softest way to kill yourself
without having to take responsibility for death.

Don’t complain about your father’s love
that goes too far, or your mother’s acquiescence. 
Learn to acquiesce yourself. 
Learn to kneel, open your voice
as collateral wreckage.

The car stalled and there was nothing for it, empty tank.
Just wait ’til someone came by, take my chances.
I am from this country.