Left Crumpled Whispering Poem by James McLain

her fingers working
long after the eyes were stripped.
through this, his moist dark reaching
for a tissue and scraped to past the
surface her once inhibited self,
the smeared and oozing
left crumpled whispering in the trash.
breasts lactating, leaving spots in a hurry always.
each night wears like this,
both eyes squinting from the trash
of q-tips and boxes of used tampons applicators,
tissue wads hardly unfolding with words.
empty plastic bottles of douche, one finger of vinegar.
cheap dark panties always moist warm and wet,
torn and ripped,
quickly tucked inside my purse
and asking for, his begging
for more change it seems always.
the two babies and wooden churchs;
he 'said' certain things;
would be easier after each one came.
i do not like the dark rooms
smelling of old coats and hats moth balls.
and another comes not many months after the last.
and only sixteen and frazzled hair, deviously
always so full i can hardly.
wait.
Father........