soon you’ll have breasts. They’ll mushroom on your
smooth chest like land mines.
A boy will show up, a schoolmate, or the gardener’s son.
Pole-cat around you. All brown-eyed persistence.
He’ll be everything your parents hate, a smart aleck,
a dropout, a street racer on the midnight prowl.
Even your best friend will call him a loser.
But this boy will steal your reason, have you
writing his name inside a scarlet heart, entwined
with misplaced passion and a bungled first kiss.
He’ll bivouac beneath your window, sweet-talk you
until you sneak out into his waiting complications.
Go ahead, tempt him with your new-found glamour.
Tumble into the backseat of his Ford at the top of Mulholland,
flushed with stardust, his mouth in a death-clamp on your nipple,
his worshipful fingers scatting sacraments on your clit.
Soon he will deceive you with your younger sister,
the girl who once loved you most in the world.
from Ragazine