I.#

So we go to school
dances in 7th grade.
We aren’t awkward.
We’re awakened. Our
hormones leave no room
for Jesus. No room for consent.
I smell the sweat
of the cafeteria. An 8th
grader spends her time kicking
younger girls behind the knees.
She laughs when a knee
buckles forward.

II.#

Today we go out. We’re friends with boys
six years older than us. We wear short,
tight dresses that we make sure to hide
from our mothers. We think it’s cool,
because boys buy us Kamikazes
and vodka cranberries. It is cool,
until Shannon’s roofied. We rush
to Felix’s place to let her rest.
We make pancakes at 4 AM.

We steal lip gloss from Wal-Mart, justify
it because corporations aren’t people. We
sleep salty and sweaty in the seats of Lucia’s
SUV. We tell our parents nothing, because
we’re adults now. We know nothing.
Who needs lip gloss at 1 AM, anyway?

III.#

I go with other Freshmen to a frat house that was kicked off
campus. Rap music so loud I can’t think. His curls

lure me in from across the room, while I dance with some-
one else. I stop what I’m doing. I walk over to the band

T-shirt and Converse. Older teenagers fill red Solo cups
with jungle juice out of a trash can. The curly-headed
one’s friends approach with backpacks full of 40s
and invite me to their house party. I agree, then kiss

the curly-headed one in the Rite-Aid parking lot. I ask
him if he believes in God, which political party he belongs to.

He shows me his bookshelves. He gives me The Importance
of Being Earnest. We smoke schwag out of a forest-green bong.

IV.#

I won’t accept that these days
will end. Today, I’m home with
my son. I’m home every day,
furloughed through a pandemic.
Holding him in my arms, I
wonder: How will things ever
be the same? This for-

ever is etched into my DNA:
playing vinyl records while we
dance in the dining room. I open
the shades wide, sun shining as you
giggle between spit-up and hiccups,
and I sing to you: If devotion
is a river, then I’m floating away.