19.


Tristessa

you were the first and last girl
whose hand I held without feeling panic
you were allergic to peanuts
you practiced fainting in the safety
of your room, onto the small
bed your mother made every morning

you hated her for adopting you and
for letting you find out about it
your real mother was a whore
( I wasn’t sure what that was)
you said it enough times,
chin jutted, that I believed it

you were a lush snow white child
but you hated your rounded calves
and cheeks, your hair so straight
and dark, bangs cut like a severe
horizon across your brow, your
dress always something navy
the skirt a little too long
vaguely nunnish, if nuns
were allowed to worship
their own inadequacy

we gave each other horse names
and galloped around the edges
of the soccer field during recess
I held strands of your long soft pelt
behind you as if they were reins
we clucked to each other when
we wanted to move, the clicking
of the tongue riders use along with
their heels, a sound like stuttering
cicadas, when the boys hit you and
made you fall down I hit them back

you were twelve and you used pills,
not very many, the first time you tried
to unravel yourself