I was thirteen when I first woke to blood
between my thighs and knees, the thick
drunk liquid of womanhood. I was sixteen
when a raccoon attacked the family dog
in winter, as my mom screeched & pounded
the small black & white body with a broom.
I was five when I realized I was a girl
& my brother’s body didn’t look quite
like mine, seven when I was no longer
allowed to take bubble baths because
the part of me that was smooth & closed
off to the world would open to the foam.
I was nine when Sam lost one of my blue
rainboots in the stream during a rainstorm,
after I’d lent it to her so she could cross
the water, too. I was seventeen when
my first kiss turned into my first more.
I was six when I accidentally killed a frog
& gave it a funeral in the backyard,
& my brother cried, so we dressed in black
& kneeled beside the dirt grave.
between my thighs and knees, the thick
drunk liquid of womanhood. I was sixteen
when a raccoon attacked the family dog
in winter, as my mom screeched & pounded
the small black & white body with a broom.
I was five when I realized I was a girl
& my brother’s body didn’t look quite
like mine, seven when I was no longer
allowed to take bubble baths because
the part of me that was smooth & closed
off to the world would open to the foam.
I was nine when Sam lost one of my blue
rainboots in the stream during a rainstorm,
after I’d lent it to her so she could cross
the water, too. I was seventeen when
my first kiss turned into my first more.
I was six when I accidentally killed a frog
& gave it a funeral in the backyard,
& my brother cried, so we dressed in black
& kneeled beside the dirt grave.