Fifteen
by Tamiko Beyer
sweet drugstore perfume. you hate it all sticky midday sun and cafeteria ketchup, hairspray and blue eye shadow. adults: incomprehensible and predictable and you want. you want so badly to have the power that lies in wine glasses and jumbled key rings.
girls can kiss better than boys --you know the magic you hold in the sheen of your nails. chalk loops on blackboard mean nothing. the desks are hard. the chairs are plastic. you need to be gone. you need to be anywhere but here.
you lie back on grass and look at the curve of lamp posts. overhead big white clouds mock you. you know why the sky is blue. because it is that's all. something will happen, you know that. with your hand against the sky, you know that.
there's a woman, purse dangling from her shoulder crossing the street in strappy heels. walking away. unlocking her silver car. she drives away and you hear songs you don't know drifting from her open window.
she didn't notice you has never noticed you and you don't care. one day she will be old and unable to wear heels or cross the street alone. She'll see you all soft flesh and strong knees and will ask: what's it like to be fifteen? And you will never say.
More About Tamiko Beyer:
Tamiko Beyer is queer and mixed-race and spends lots of
time
writing in her slanted home in Brooklyn. Her poetry has appeared in
a variety
of print and online publications including Calyx, Crab Creek
Review, Gumball Poetry, and String Town.
You can email Tamiko at catbeyer@nwlink.com.
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