Upon Realizing My Uncle is a Pedophile

After my best friend left,
and we were in the clear,
my uncle asked,
“Is she good?”

My friend was 15. I was 16.

“Yeah, she’s good. She’s nice. . . Why?” I responded.

“No,” he responded. “I mean, in bed. Y’all fucked right?”

The disregarded moments
of before made sense:
While she and I discussed
weekend plans in the kitchen,
he continued to enter and leave,
nervously, as if supervising, without a word;
getting a glass of water
and drinking it,
getting another glass of water
and drinking it,
standing there,
staring in our direction,
the glass
was empty.
Then got another glass of water
and drank it,
staring into her doe eyes,
her cornsilk hair and pale skin,
thoughtfully tapping at his dick
through his sweatpants,
trying to calm and tuck it.

I. Saw. All. Of. This.
She did not.
And he was so enthralled
with her
he didn’t see me seeing him,
seeing her.

We hadn’t fucked.
That wasn’t a thing on our minds.

Never would she visit again.
Never could I trust him.

About Stephen Earley Jordan II

Author of "Beyond Bougie", "Cold, Black, and Hungry" and many other books. www.StephenEarleyJordan.com
This entry was posted in poetry, Uncategorized, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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