In the deli parking lot, we were those bestial babes—
gutting a White Owl, blowing its insides out
onto an undercover cop car.

Without the moon’s help, we were becoming
holographic jailbait. Hey, mister, be a dear & buy us
some beer. Our mothers were still postpartum.

Don’t be short with me! we screamed at the night.
We were euphemisms waiting to happen. A vague rain.
We were transactional sex. Cha-ching! We were kiss-him

because-he’s-so-goddamn-boring, a mouth-breather.
Remember how we watched lava lamps through needle holes,
became feline, nectarine fizz in our jewel-like heads? Remember

being stripped lollipop pink & spread
on a strange bed? Love was always like this,
jagged & hooked to a different mouth.

In morning’s eggshell, we were those girls who slept late
with valedictorians. We were promising, going places.
We intended to keep our animals secret,

but we were those amphibious nymphs:
                green & splayed
pinned down on a nerd’s dissection tray.
 
 
(winner of the Editors’ Prize in Poetry for issue 33)