My fault, her face closing like a zipper?
Curt wave as she heads out with the giggling
pack, all come-hither hair and bare shoulders,
posing for selfies, smelling like spring.
She doesn’t know to fear the boys who “like” her
posts, experts at how to flirt and flatter.
Soon they’ll be sending dick pics, asking for
secrets, showing up at our door.
History writes me wrong – a helicopter mother,
scared some hellish punk will sway her child.
The magic that I work’s to keep her author
of her own mythology, a wild woman
who can choose, refuse, aspire.
Not some hell-bound object of desire.
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