Consider sleeping with a married man, a threetime father,
              a slickhaired cool with tickets to the palace you deserve,
              you princess of the world.
Don't think about it too much, he knows what he's doing, arriving in crisp
           white American Dreams and that motorcycle, those
           roses. Absolute magic, the way he's not with his wife.                                         Temper and diamond sun trips, stick shifts and scandal—they're all yours Years later, he'll still talk to you like that. Like you're nothing but he loves you.

Have two daughters & teach them to lie. Admire how beautiful
         you all sound with lions in your names. Raise them
         right, those rare girls, their big stardom eyes
                   learning how you line your lips & put every
                             man in his place. Keep it a secret that Papa will never humble
like that or listen,
                                  that you will all have to love his dynasty from cages.

When your daughters are grown, tell them running
           to & from him like a tournament is what grew you up.
         Admit you'd leave if you could but stay. Watch your castle become a
                            slaughterhouse. Scrub cat vomit from its rugs, let it get                 old and dry. Save everyone's life there, drag your dead dog from the pool, wish Italian
marble didn't echo the screaming fights, the threats, the               mistake. Medicate yourself, go crazy.

Teach your daughters about tampons & god. Insist they can do anything, but wish
     they weren't so fearless. Reveal nothing, you mysterious Scorpion Queen. Pretend you're
in an Amalfi coast universe with nothing but olive trees and perfect water.
          Run the restaurant that will end up starving your family, the one where           the old man dropped dead and the other smeared his shit on the bathroom walls,
                            where the manager steals your money but Big Papa won't
                                                                   stop him. Stop talking to everyone  except your customers, Joe who gets chicken parmesan and Mariya the Russian lady who will  only buy spicy bread. Carry the trays of the elderly to their tables and need your own gone mother.

Spend time in the laundry room, get out any stain. Bake like no woman has ever baked, make sure to burn some for Papa. Bury everyone you know, even yourself, and
                       be glad you don't understand how much
          your daughters want to be you,
                  save you,
                  discard you.