She's just so out of touch
in her little black world.
Dark mascara, dyed hair,
black, black clothes.
At least her backpack
has some brightness.
Where's my little girl?
How can the boys
see how pretty she is?
I tell her. I scold her.
I restrict her. She fights.
Her clothes are so long,
at least they're not slutty.
My little girl's not a slut,
she's a bore --
a long, black bore.

Where's the sparkle?
Where's the giggle?
It's been so many years.
I want her on my lap again,
though at twelve, there's no way.
I want her little arms around my neck.
I want to feel her chubbiness,
her cherubness.
It has stretched and has been cloaked.
Is it still there? I wonder.
Will she laugh the same, or at least start?
I must find out, my cherub.

She's not a whore,
but she doesn't walk like a woman.
She's around her mother.
Her sister sets a feminine example.
That must be how they learn it,
how they prance and gait.
I've seen no lessons,
unless they are in private.
What are they teaching my cherub?
When are these dark sessions?
Not at school, she is right home,
or so her mother says.
Is it the TV, the internet?
Or is she shrowding herself?
Is black her choice alone?

Why would that be?
Of all colors, why black?
I must solve this mystery?
The house is not black.
Her mother, her sister, her brother, myself,
not black, not dark,
but light.

I shall meet her in the black.

When does she return?
I have nothing black, but slacks.
I shall buy something black.
I have no time. I shall take the day off.
The reports! They will wait a day.
The client will wait.
I'll shop.
"My daughter likes black," I'll say.
The women will help me.

Peppermint icecream. It's cold, no matter.
She used to cry for peppermint.
I'll buy it, I'll wait.
I'll enter the black, my cherub.

I can't wait for school to get out.