That was the year they began, those terrible
crushes on girls. Girls already in eight grade
who wore tight sweaters and opalescent eye shadow
who we watched in the hallways, their hips pressed
to the narrow pelvises of boys, the straps of their tank tops
sliding off their bronzed shoulders.
How we envied them their broken curfews
and chipped nail polish, their curved calves and
feathered bangs, had seen them
stand before the mirror in the littered bathroom aisle
lick their lavender gloss, then look up
towards the harsh florescent lights
and raise a tilted wand to their lashes.
And when they walked, the air behind them swayed,
heady with flowers and the scent
of their own ripening. It seemed impossible, then
that we could become them.
Whatever language it was they spoke,
clustered together, leaning in,
before they broke apart in scattered cries,
it was theirs alone. Even now
they float before me, ambassadors of beauty,
twisting strands of shiny hair
around their slender fingers,
chewing spearmint gum as they
scratch initials into their wooden desks,
staring out the windows
peering through us
into the life that lay ahead.