CATHERINE OWEN

Guilt is not the point but accuracy, 1975

So you figure out where it began, how 
it rolled out like pegged clothes on the line 
over the empty garden beds.

Should an older man be putting his large
mouth on a girl's small lips, a bank blotter
over a tiny, crayoned heart?

Must the parents say this is the price of admission or this 
is what we give in return 
and though she claims not to like it

to shrink, this is not of particular importance,
a child's bodily knowledge is never law
and this of course was the 70s.

There was a sheepskin to sit on instead of chairs 
and fondue was eaten out of bowls on our laps: a spear 
of cheap meat and veg then

for consolation, the chocolate of your father's 
continued job, the fruit of your compliance.