The first day I was a girl was in my backyard with my brother picking up brush to burn in a pile and my dad said I had to put a shirt on that summer even though it was hot and my brother was shirtless and I was six or seven and helping clean up the backyard and it was a wooded lot down a long gravel drive and there was nobody to see it but I was a girl in that heat and always would be.
So you’re buying concealer,
Plan B, and a ginger ale and are nearly thirty,
and the CVS cashier who smiled at the man
ahead of you buying adult diapers
clutches her lanyard. To be a woman
in Charleston is expensive in ways
you weren’t prepared for. There are men
who will pay for everything
but the morning. So you said I love you
into the seventh glass of dry wine,
as the hurricane declared your street
a river. What the hangover says is slow.
The hickey you’re too old for sighs,
You’ve got enough light with the shades drawn.