The golden fountain

She'd been the eldest of seven siblings
all of whose bottoms she’d wet-wiped
for mother—two sisters, four brothers—
cleaned shit from them all, learned
to wipe from front to back, and paid

close attention to their special creases.
She’d laughed at the tiny penises
of the boys, not envying them
their gift of directing a stream of piss,
pushed their willies aside with her pinky.

Then one summer's evening in a copse
she learned how oaks from tiny acorns
come, and, as her lover stabbed her,
stabbed her over and over again,
all she could think of was the shower

scene from Psycho. And if years before
someone had told her her vagina
was there for the want of a penis
she could never have understood,
but would have known better than to laugh.

(c) 2013 Slush Poet