I didn’t know the girl
raped by her uncle, the one
who told her dirty jokes,
the neighbor women whispered
poor girl, eleven, disappeared,
gone to ‘the home.’
I knew about The Home out on
the highway for girls who got
themselves pregnant,
as though they caught
a disease because they
didn’t wear a jacket.
I didn’t know the girl
on the sidewalk downtown,
her head lifted to catch
moving air in the wrinkles
of her shiny black neck, road tar melting
in hot July, baby
in her 14-year-old belly.
I didn’t know. I stuffed my white
gloves into my pocket, went back
to my whiter-than-white neighborhood.
hung my white blouse in the closet,
coat hangers jangling
their impatience like little girls who
just want to play outside.
