As a child, you imagine your life will
be—what?
a movie, a Broadway musical, your name
in neon,
one scene after another, supporting cast, chorus girls,
leading man, some soundtrack in the
background,
an orchestra that cuts in the exact moment
you feel this is what life is.
As a child, you try on selves,
dolls that date, learn to kiss, stuff socks
into your first bra, strut around your
room
in high heels four sizes too big, wonder
when a man loves you, what self
will be most important.
As a child, you learn even dirt can be
good for you,
that cleanliness is not a direct line to godliness,
that a spot of blood in your underwear
means life is happening.
As a child, you find love means
a telephone call, a note slipped under your chair,
and later, you paint your toenails red,
shrink your jeans in the dryer.
Don’t let the bedroom knock you down
with its visits of lovers, hang-up calls,
stones thrown at the window.
Your body is an unfinished paradise—
keep alive in your skin, dazzle yourself,
laugh out loud, turn up the volume
In the mirror, applaud, then bow.
Flowers will be thrown at your feet.
(back)
