A sonnet for the survivors
No one asks the babysitter for permission.
The maiden and Poseidon in a Chevy Impala.
The endless dark road along the St. Mary’s River,
lit by a muted moon. The conversation.
“Do you date? Do you kiss boys?”
Questions slither where he doesn’t belong.
Would Poseidon violate me? Dump me
in the river? My purse. My long metal nail file.
As sharp as the edge of a broken mirror. My hair,
swarming snakes. I sit coiled, ready to strike.
Flashing my serpentine smile into my knife.
Into his eyes. Frozen stones.
He won’t dare claim, “She enticed me,”
when Medusa calls the police.
LatinosUSA 
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