West
as a spy collecting
kisses for my belt
notes on bodies,
notes
on my future as a
teen
boobs, obviously, a
car
an attitude
a tan
not two weeks but
eight
DTS*, mad friends
desperate to be
Harriet (the spy)
charming in baggy
clothes,
nonchalant,
keen on simple foods
and cats,
vulnerable wrists in
a wheel pose on the bed
and the way the pencil lead
made my mouth water
and so the
lackluster versions
of south Jersey, of
my
family
oh,
kiss! kiss!
we’d beg our parents
just a little spark?
feeling hopelessly
young
in my belt at the
picnic table
at dawn, wait for my mom
for her bike along the rocks
until 7 am,
as if suicide might
just happen to me
*Down the Shore
