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.
