Tag

I’m nine.

Tall bones hiding in

the blind spot of my home,

legs poking out from under beds

I’ve outgrown hide and seek.

My breast can now spill into

a man’s hand,

nearly filling them.

They sharpen during tag –

two porcupine quills under my flower tank top,

I’m a woman now.

Time for a new game

Only one rule: keep quiet,

because sound can

escape from bolted doors –

pain can come from cousins.

Your girlishness slipped in his back pocket,

jeans undressed.

Morning came.

And then it came for 15 years.

But I’m still nine.

My navel was mine and my mother’s –

now a hole I sneak out of

for others

to occupy.