My Pretty Little Girl

by Regis Boff

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.