First published in Naugatuck River Review (a journal of narrative poetry that sings), Summer 2010
Bloomings
Cousin Tippy wears a bra now— adjusts
and unhooks as if she's been wearing one
all her life like the Greenbaum girl. Meanwhile
everything on me, but those, is growing— hair, nails,
legs, feet. Tippy will be a woman before too long,
the aunts say. ("Bras now, babies next.")
There is no hope for me, ma says,
I will always look like a child: flat and straight
up. Cousin Tippy tells me not to worry, tells me
to think positive, to think of boys and babies and
blood. ("The blood comes 'bout 'round the time
you're needing a bra.") But I am too boyish
and un-round to picture a boy crawling all over
me the way they do on the soaps or in
the movies. Too sharp in the elbows and ankles, too long
in the neck to think of any baby ever blooming
in me, to think any blood will ever blossom
below and make me girl.
