Whatever Legacy Works

For G.S.

I saw the little girl’s ears flower
after the poet taught her to curse,
“Fuck” and “Prick” pollinating
her six-year-old brain. Maybe blooming only
later at home, when stubbing a toe,
or losing patience with an older brother.
The horrified mother, soap in hand, swearing
off poetry readings, and the smiles
of wizened and wilting old men,
as her daughter’s eyes water
at the taste of Dove and the power
of sound, word, immortality.