You are seven years old,
a machine that makes babies,

bought for 21,000 pounds of tobacco.


You live in the 5th line
of the
 75th page
of my 
civic government textbook.


I will never know what is to have

owning hands in my mouth, 

owning hands around my waist, 

owning hands up and down my legs,

to be sold.


You will never know what it is

to sit in the back of a lecture hall

and take your knowledge for granted.



And this is the only moment I will ever clearly see you.