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I wrote this. It's more personal that most of my stuff. Thank you Sharon Olds. Anyone care to comment on this? I think the last line isn't right, but I'm not sure.
At Four
He did not ask permission when
he pushed the cotton tipped swab into
my body. I was spread out on a table in
the examination room, my mother’s hand
in mine tethering me to the moment. I
wanted her proud of me, so I did not ask
what was happening, or why. I was still
young enough to trust that they would
tell me what they were doing, make
an effort to keep me from being
afraid. I felt the stick scraping my
insides and I twitched my lower body to
the sound of “stay still it won’t hurt much we’re
almost done” low and sweet, doing nothing to
quiet my fear of splinters down
there. When he pulled it out I fought
not to close my thighs and trap his hand
where it did not belong, with that
stick still inside. When it was over and I
clutched the tiny rubber poodle, my
reward for behaving like a good girl, I promised
nothing like that would happen again.
At Four
He did not ask permission when
he pushed the cotton tipped swab into
my body. I was spread out on a table in
the examination room, my mother’s hand
in mine tethering me to the moment. I
wanted her proud of me, so I did not ask
what was happening, or why. I was still
young enough to trust that they would
tell me what they were doing, make
an effort to keep me from being
afraid. I felt the stick scraping my
insides and I twitched my lower body to
the sound of “stay still it won’t hurt much we’re
almost done” low and sweet, doing nothing to
quiet my fear of splinters down
there. When he pulled it out I fought
not to close my thighs and trap his hand
where it did not belong, with that
stick still inside. When it was over and I
clutched the tiny rubber poodle, my
reward for behaving like a good girl, I promised
nothing like that would happen again.