Victoria Poem by Brett Rogers

If I had a gun,
I’d name it Victoria.

Victoria -
The 13-year-old
Feminist/dominant
Sneering and spewing
“I hate you”’s,
From her brown-freckled face
(framed by a crown) ,
On all four sides
Of the child-filled block.

Victoria -
A babysitter from the big-kid school.
Tool! Cruel rule,
From an angry Catholic gene pool,
Boiling from that house in the neighborhood
Always dark and drawn.
Victoria:
Seductive,
Naughty sex dream;
(I hate)
Stuck in my brain.

* * *

At my temple,
I think of these:

I laid hands
On a younger girl,
In a violent way.
Unsuspecting me,
She leapt,
Claws sharpened and out.
One slash, two
On my 10-year-old back,
Long
(too long,
And not long enough)
before I knew
How sexy
And natural it is
To be hurt by a woman.
I laid hands
On a younger girl,
Open-handed
Across the face:
Jawbreaker-cheeked Kelly,
Dirty, with dirty-blonde hair.

If I had a gun …

Victoria -
Who,
That lingering Summer dusk,
Dank garage …
Stood, stared and judged …
Then listened with her eyes
To my frightened silence,
For a forever
Second or two …

Before I fled one way
And she treaded another,
Toward the red-orange West …
Scornfully worshipped;
Eternal memory.

If I had a gun
I’d name it Victoria,
And
We’d meet
At the temple
Everyday.