My mother once put me in dresses. I believed 
their embroidery: be careful, don’t get dirty. 
I watched my friends apply mascara and rouge, 
redden the rims of their lips. They swung curling irons 

and batted black lashes. I couldn’t catch that rhythm. 
My body was a shuttered house—nervous, 
I held my breath when boys came close. Still waters 
run deep, a man once told me, leering like a creep, 

and I thought, I wish you’d drown. Meanwhile, 
other girls danced at clubs on E Street while I studied 
college texts by lamplight. I watched them return, 
packs of happy spirits blurred by shadows, arms 

wrapped around waists of boys. It wasn’t skin-on-skin 
I wanted but only faith in my own movement, 
that confidence of bone. I have no qualms with angels, 
but years have passed like raging streams. Now, 

I’d rather be more stain than bleach, more serpent 
than Eve. I know my way around Merriam-Webster, 
I’ll steer clear of doxy or wench. But hussy? Go on 
and give it to me. It feels like exhale. It sounds like a snake.