“We’re going to be man slayers,”
you told me, fox eyes glimmering.
We were nine, on the playground.
I knew you would be,
with your sharp, fast grin
and trickster ways.
Already you were revolutionary.
You moved through the woods like a sprite
daring and limber among the sweet-smelling eucalyptus
as we searched for fairies among the leaves.
You were already one of them,
leaving me, all gangly limbs and confusion,
to worship your glow.
Six years later,
and you’re smoking out your bedroom window
beautiful in the late night,
long thin fingers and the sharp curve
of your shoulders
cutting into the blackness.
I, uneasy child,
sat on the carpet watching you
amidst your magazine clippings
and The Pixies playing quietly,
listening to your tales of sexual awakening
and blurry drug highs.
I thought that Clementine,
the name that was supposed to be yours,
would have suited you better.
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