When the date ends, your sister will
kiss the fullback goodnight on tip toe
under the porch light, her soft curls a halo
illuminating her naiveté.
 
You, on the other hand,
will stare at your bare feet.
Not shy: Sullied. Seething.
 
Your sister will thank the fullback for dinner
at Tony’s on the Pier,
the copious cocktails and signature chocolate mousse.
She’ll tell him she had a wonderful time.
That she hopes she’ll see him again.
 
You will say none of these things.
You will mind your manners.
You will try not to think how the quarterback
just forced himself into your mouth.
 
You will bite your tongue and smile,
pretend his baller body
hasn’t just slammed into yours,
that he didn’t wipe his penis on your sheets
when he was done,
 
that while he was assaulting you,
you didn’t wonder if the fullback was out there,
raping your sister. If he, too, was brutal.
 
In fact, your sister and the fullback only
watched tv, making out, but just a little.
 
You had no way to know this.
 
You lie there and take it for your sister.
You think about her delicate spine,
believing if you play it wrong,
he might snap her like a sparrow.
 
They eye the closed door of your bedroom.
They share a knowing smile.
 
They know nothing.