Reposting from several months ago.  It was bad poetry then and remains that.  I wish that it was not based on truth.

After 30 years of intimacy

not always

but often enough

late at night

in the dark

during the after talk

they tell me.

"My uncle"

"My cousin"

"My coach"

"My frat big brother"

"My sister’s boyfriend"

Always someone they knew.

Forget stranger danger.

Then their voices change

in the dark

and they are boys again.

"I was 10."

"I was 8."

"I was 14."

"I was 12."

“And he told me never to tell.”

That is not when they cry.

Only at this …

"They already knew and nobody helped me."