One girl leans back against the wall, top row

on the bleachers. Music ricochets off each still

and moving surface. To speak is to shout. Bare

need bear hugs this girl, bowed head to slumped

shoulders. I regret my age. I long for braces

on my teeth and pimples on my face,

budding hips and breasts. I’d like to take

these bleachers two at a time, play-punch

her arm and relay gossip that the other

kids could overhear. I picture us

laughing at the girls we’d like to know,

but can’t. We swing and sway and do

the chicken dance, then concoct a plot to get

my mom to take us out for pizza after. We send

our secrets spinning around this sweaty gym.

 

From A Poetry Break (Ocean Publishing, 2004).

Used here with the author’s permission.