and inscrutable as mirrored cop glasses—
they reflected your fear right back at you.
The girls I grew up with were high-shouldered
& French-cut & had skin like a copper skillet.

They had buttresses in their bangs
& shins like weapons & weren’t afraid
to hurt you. They were gleaming, high-busted
& knew their way around a pool table.

They moved down the court of my adolescence,
all muscle & hair & high-five. They passed
pre-calculus & clattered down those awful halls
like the air of the high school was hugging them.

Their retainers glinted when they grinned
& when they laughed hard, you could sometimes
see the whole firmament of sparkly blue plastic.
They two-stepped & were top-heavy with God.

The girls I grew up with had cliques & Clinique
& wanted to study International Business.
Without intending to, their limbs sawed at the new
wood of me. I was soft & easily outdone.

I flung myself in the path of their collective
Jeep Cherokee & said my dad had stranded me.
They didn’t stop—even though I smiled,
even though I said, Please. Even though

I’d baked them lemon cupcakes
& daubed Love’s Baby Soft between my knees.