At thirteen, we powdered our faces
blotted our noses with tissue
creme lipstick swiped from Kroger
dabbed on our know-nothing lips
earned us a confidence, made our
faces into the faces of older girls.
Gray was coming for us, to turn our
hair into our mother’s hair but
in the dark, tittering together
jammed in sleeping bags
kneecaps touched, we thought only of how
luscious the boys’ alien tongues
might be. At
night, the blinds
on the windows
pursed their lips like mothers.
Quiet eventually came, the night
softness in our cheeks
thickening our thighs and hips
under the covers
virgins or just girls on the verge.
Wind in our hair in the morning, our bodies
exactly as light and as fast as
young bullets rushing.