Rock Accountant

My Pretty Little Girl

My mother hurried me to be pretty.
For the boys, she knew must come.
Or my true happiness
would be missed.
I did nothing but practice being pretty,
to be perfect, for the boy
I knew would come.
He came and he
allowed me to have babies
and to rest
and be not be so pretty.
Then the babies grew and
I hunted for my pretty again
so my husband would not leave me.
But they did not come back.
Nor did he.
So I sit here
watching myself slowly
be not so pretty anymore, to anyone.

Sixty Days After the Announcement

It unsettles me that if the world, everybody’s world, were to end in exactly seventy years, that no one would remain lean, kale eating, or vain sixty days after the announcement.

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