Turning 13

I couldn’t wait. 

Stranded daily by the need

to be a teen—

to be eligible for real life

in a bra, lipstick,

I marked each month 

on the kitchen calendar.

12 is hard. 

Lost affection for dolls, jump ropes.  

Nothing left to beg 

for in the holiday catalogue

except, maybe, 

another board game

but they too are challenged 

by the sudden flame of womanhood—

by the discomfort with too much youth.

Where’s the catalogue for mutants

leaving middle school, 

for busting

into the next life

of hairstyles, boy bands, boys

heartbreak?

For feeling less strange 

in my own home with mom,

herself bored at the dining table,

flipping through catalogues, 

wrestling with age—

Mine and hers, 

for the first time.