girls, twelve years old, on a field trip, a choir
competition in the Great Smoky Mountains.
I am all knees in cut-off shorts and my first
Bikini. I hide my birthmark with a Band-Aid
because Amy, in the second grade, asked
me where it came from, asked me
did it smell, was it like regular skin, and then
Blair laughed and all the other pretty girls
followed. What is a pretty girl? I used to think
their faces were almost like mine except
their features were on straight, nothing crooked
like my teeth. On this trip, boys splash
each other and yell modestly dirty insults
at the girls walking on the concrete above them
always upping the drama, seeing what they could get
away with, and they could get away
with so much and only a nod and a shush
from the teachers chaperoning. We girls sit silent
watching the fuss, swirling the water
with our legs. I am thinking of someone
I might have a crush on. I’m hoping someone
will see my body bloom—how I’ve changed.
What do you think will happen next? Will we sing
beautifully, win first place and go home
with a trophy? Will we sneak out of the hotel rooms
at night and have our first kiss? We sit silent—latent,
something secret on the tip our tongues.
by Erin Carlyle
Erin Carlyle is a poet living in Atlanta, Georgia. Her work can be found in journals such as Tupelo Quarterly, Arts and Letters, Jet Fuel, and Prairie Schooner. Her second collection, Girl at the End of the World, is out now with Driftwood Press.
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