4/2026 (c) a rewrite of a 1990s piece, never finished.
That spring the playground games shifted.
We girls no longer linked arms and marched
leg over leg, sweeping up boys
like in a trolling net, or a steam roller.
Hopscotch and jump rope were now
miles behind us.
We lounged on the grassy hill
chaining daisies, pointing out
the charm of one boy or another
playing baseball in the field below.
I couldn’t quite manage
the daisy chains’ precise knots.
The heads kept popping off.
Other girls took up my chains,
said I was incapable of delicacy,
better suited to gum wrappers
or pop-tabs.
That spring we started writing slam books,
pointing out each other’s new fat,
training bras, braces, our bodies
exploding outward, remade
into something unfathomable to me.
The cooler girls spent a lot of time kissing,
tasting the boys,
as if the boys were consumable,
were endowed with a nourishment
I was starting to want.
