Cutting Cards
there, in the shag-carpeted room above the garage,
drunk on warm sprite and the promise of thirteen,
we agree to play strip poker with the boys.
they outnumber us 2 to 1. this statistic plants sea-urchins
in the tide pool of my belly, each what-if bursting
with prickly, alien anticipation.
we agree to play as a team—
i refuse to strip & Grace doesn’t know the rules,
so i become the brain; she becomes the body.
this is the dichotomy of girl-hood, the familiar parsing
of ourselves to earn a seat at the table.
i am still hazy on the distinction
of being wanted vs. welcomed.
i do not yet know where i fit;
who i should pretend to be.
as the game grinds on, the boys grow bashful,
avert their eyes from Grace & her underwear.
i diligently study the flop, the turn, the river,
but all attention in the room
is focusing, blue-hot & brittle,
two inches above Grace's belly button.
she crosses her freckled arms & i do not look at her face.
there's something here i want for myself:
to press a finger-pad to this stovetop surface,
not despite the danger but because of it.
this is the moment i decide i too must yield
my layers until i am the one thing
in the room so desirable
everyone knows to look away.