Girl, Mapped in Florida
Fort Myers
I skirt hid skinned
knees on Sunday morning
at my other grandmother’s bingo-hall-turned-Pentecostal-church. Little
girls were never meant to be so dirty,
sandpaper mouthed and only pretending to pray.
My mother Cover Girled
a swollen eye bloom, flowering
bud of bruise on cheek. Her marriage burst
like an inflamed appendix—ignore the ache too long
and pay ache plus incision.
Bradenton
I window lived girlhood,
an age whisper-held and breath-caught
on the way to woman. Home was a 1978 station wagon,
spending its days at the beach. Girls, seasick
from the jaunt and jangle, either learn stillness or sinking.
Apopka
I slow learned letting go. My mother
drove away, and I stayed. Fruits skinned in sugar
with pitted rage (her typical mother weapon)
ground-sank, the spoils of bitter-bright freedom—
a reward for the first 18 years.
