To the Muggers of My Grandmothers
As girls of the cul-de-sac it was our job to show the new ones
how it was done. Show them the head full of bees, the shapes
we continued to resurrect before getting it right.
Little Lavinias with our hair on fire, good luck before war—
or tongues torn out for theatrics. Silence the new opposite of tragedy.
We’d stand in a straight line, shoulder deep in chlorine, legs open
below the water to form a tunnel for the new girls to swim through.
We’d wait until they’d get right to the middle,
then on the count of one, two
we’d close our legs to trap them there. Laugh as they tried to find
their way to the surface. We all took turns
swimming through the tunnel, convinced we were the ones
fast enough to make it through to the other side.
It continued in this way for years, in and out of the water.
And like a bad first date it all came down to narrative.
To the name you give a thing before you know it intimately.
So of course, they said we taught the game to ourselves.
Even though the man bit my mother during a work function
and the Pastor made all us girls promise: wed, bed, then bled
(Did I say bled? I meant blessed.) Even though the boys we met
demanded love, wanted blood on the downy pillows as proof,
while their mothers clipped coupons and would not shake our hands.
Even when the muggers of both my grandmothers
closed the space between hand and swath of neck.
We’d been coming along nicely before that. Now we let
the flower’s wilt on purpose, death not always unbecoming.
We wonder what pretty horses there must be in places
where horses run wild. Keep the new girls underwater
for longer and longer. Each gasping breath, a new bright start.