Heaven and Its Teenage Riot

One woman smelled like honey, the other like Funyuns.

I hadn't started carrying a purse yet, kept a check safe

in my sports bra. When house lights turned off I was not

centered. But nobody waits for a shadow to catch up.

One woman took measurements, the other extracted

feathers from a gallon bag. What exactly was I learning

aside from how to lean? My unremarkable thighs

clanged together like volumes of a fresh encyclopedia.

I wondered how many people had touched the clipboard.

Back then people still actively licked their fingers.

I walked everywhere, considered a coat demeaning.

My street had more boards than windows, a stray rooster.

Thinking about the moon brought collective nausea.

It was 1990 and we spent zero time pondering the future.

People always asked if I had a fever. I tested poorly.

When the flood lights powered on it felt like spit falling.

Basically it was a life with very little context beyond

yes or no. They assigned me a leotard thinner than a mask.

The only taboo was braids so loose they resembled grain.

A phone was a thing with square buttons, a wall mount.

The "hangout" a bald fire pit by warehouse tracks.

Getting high meant becoming happy, and I aspired to it.