~BETH
SIMON~
THIS
GIRL
OF SIXTEEN
WHO
DESIRES
Tonight, I will love myself at sixteen
when I desired
what I thought were the troubles
of bad girls
in Iowa, pretending I smoked menthol
cigarettes,
that my parents would divorce, that
my father,
at least, worked the line at Firestone,
took nothing
from the foreman but an occasional
beer,
flipped the bird to management, and
went out
damn proud when the Union said,
Walk.
Friday nights, I stripped and searched
the mirror
for Slavic bones, rib cage, pelvis,
delicate
as a newly emerged atoll, trying
to acquire
come-hither moves and the ropey
voice that meant
devil in a blue dress to a bass guitar
player
with silver ear clips. Saturdays,
I lied like hell
to make off with my mother's Impala,
speeding
for nearby soybean towns, scooping
the loop in Ottumwa,
or Ames, parked in the shade of
a grain elevator
where I learned lust for a dark
green Camaro,
and each day after school I rode
my bike across
the river, because the East Side
was dangerous,
because crossing was bad, because
I knew the rules,
and wanted every dark thing to be
green and perfect.
© by Beth Simon