This morning, something sublime:

one boy’s hand

sinks into my breast like a

rock thrown from afar.

It plunges smooth and white and

my chest pulses, a heart rabbit

squirming under the hold of his eyes.

I push and kick, as required.

“She’s ugly”, says he, “but

at least these are nice”;

then something inside me snaps

and glimmers.

 

These school mornings are all the same:

the other girls swatting boys hands

like wasps, a twitch of wrist and screech.

Sports class meets

in a warm buzz of urge when

the legs are bare and the

breasts are moving targets.

These mornings are all the same

but this one is different.

Today, I have a boy hand to swat, too,

and a certain look from the girls.

They pool their eyes down to their

chests; something beneath hisses

and purrs.

 

Even then I am not sure whether

it’s a gift or a loan;

this sisterhood is only for those who

can keep the hand buzzing back;

they look away, their manes humming

with a knowledge: the choice of

me as the bloom a one-off.

I want to go off

on them, and off the field;

say “I don’t feel well, there is blood.”

The teacher rolls his eyes, the boys howl:

they have already forgotten.

These girls, with their girl problems.

 

The snickering at naked calves on

their way back to class should echo,

a red sound of warning,

but no: I tape my eyes bright shut.

Today, I am also a set of calves

I am also snickered at.

Today my curls bounce on my

back and my hips swing up the

stairs.

My dainty friends scamper

up the steps, their girlhoods strapped

to their chests. A choir of

meows fills the staircase.

The girls, I call them cats,

carriers of furry knowledge. I call them,

I call them, and they don’t turn.

Back at my desk something moves:

between the blossoms of my breasts

another animal, another slick

creature of love

is stirring.