Today's poem is by Rochelle Hurt

Selfward
       

In one life, I was a mail-order house
with a picture window for a mouth.

Every sigh hit with a thud, every word
was a spot of blood on the glass.

If you looked closely, you could see inside:
my sex on a table like a porcelain bowl

refilled & refilled. I sold myself. The deed
was a wad of pink gum stuck beneath

that table for thirty years. You understand:
there was no doer & there was no door.

Call me a ward of the state of things—
a call girl, a girl to be called "girl." We all were

bound for wealth. We all dressed ourselves
with names & lips like awnings.

Each man stood on his sex like a scaffold,
holding a brush & a bucket of blue.

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Copyright © 2022 Rochelle Hurt All rights reserved
from The J Girls: A Reality Show
University of Arkansas
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission