The night the Duggar scandal
breaks, my daughter spikes a fever.
I strip her down to run her small
body under cool water.
While they were sleeping, Josh Duggar touched
his sisters over and under
their clothes, weaving
fingers through armored denim,
thumbing a hole in the seam
of a shirt. Our daughter’s body hurts
like an oven I’m too afraid
to touch. American Girl Doll
Girl of the Year, Grace
loves to bake. She pipes French
macaroons for sale,
a field of pastel coins. I dated
Josh Duggar once. Not him,
but a man who lured his little
brother to the bottom bunk,
closed his eyes and pretended that skinny,
was the girl who turned him down
at the dance. I wait all night,
curled on the lip of the tub for the fever to break.
He put his mouth on my pecker
that was his word for it.
Wedging himself wet. The fever thirsts fizzles.
The baby sleeps
toweled in terrycloth. Grace hungers
for a girl in velveteen clothes.
How can you take from a small thing
nested against you like a cloud
stitched over earth? In the bathroom
I discover I am pregnant again.
My body fills
with other bodies that buck
and twist inside me like the fingers of men.
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