Daughter of the Sewer

That dirty water
sucks up all my time.
Sure drowned anyone my mom
hoped I’d become –
and even she didn’t hope for much.
Not after that Sunday the church bells
told my brother
to hold me under,
to let the Gowanus soak away
my four-year-old bombshell grin,
peeling down my baby skin,
kissing me blue,
shoving its thumb up under my ribcage,
until all I had left to spit up
was that four-letter joke “love.”
Not after I crossed the street,
rang the bell,
told that rich blond baby
if she ever left her house,
I’d cut off her balls.   
Right, she flew off to college,
graduating now, they say.    And me,
my only trip’s
been the 1990 train from Coney Island
pulling in at Carroll Street, 2012,
the sewer water lecturing me
until I give myself
to any fat wave that whispers soft,
Hey, mizz,
you look
the crotch of its current
hard as a police club,
whoo hoo,
soaking up over my breasts
as I realize,
it’s laughing.