-what his daughters might have said-

when we were little,

unopened,—

knickknacks like glassy Mary

not Mary Madonna beautiful,

but beautiful—

not beautiful like the smokey 

girls downtown

who knew everything.

we don’t like it

when the petals are touched—

when they’re not ready—

when they never could be

when bloodless

fingertips at the piano

oddly knew where discordant

chords are struck.

we don’t like it

when you tell us to kiss

your mouth.

that closeness

brings us to the stink of your hair.

we don’t like it.

we don’t like it.

we don’t like it.

                     the 3 Browns