Men

When I was young, I used toWatch behind the curtainsAs men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.Young men sharp as mustard.See them. Men are alwaysGoing somewhere.They knew I was there. FifteenYears old and starving for them.Under my window, they would pauses,Their shoulders high like theBreasts of a young girl,Jacket tails slapping overThose behinds,Men.
One day they hold you in thePalms of their hands, gentle, as if youWere the last raw egg in the world. ThenThey tighten up. Just a little. TheFirst squeeze is nice. A quick hug.Soft into your defenselessness. A littleMore. The hurt begins. Wrench out aSmile that slides around the fear. When theAir disappears,Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.It is your juiceThat runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.When the earth rights itself again,And taste tries to return to the tongue,Your body has slammed shut. Forever.No keys exist.
Then the window draws full uponYour mind. There, just beyondThe sway of curtains, men walk.Knowing something.Going someplace.But this time, I will simplyStand and watch.
Maybe.

Maya Angelou