Confessions of a Barefaced Woman. Allison Joseph

to chase a ball somebody threw.

      Where are those girls who used to sing my name?

      We’d duck behind a car or garbage can,

      tripping on the laces of our shoes,

      knees crashing into asphalt, the span

      from thigh to knee bruised and blue

      from falls and skids. We’d unscrew

      the caps of hydrants, hair untamed

      as we danced in spray, broke that taboo.

      Where are those girls who used to chant my name?

      We’d dig through mud, despite the ban

      our mothers yelled at us, the slew

      of illnesses we’d get from dirty hands.

      Our dirty scabs and scars accrued

      but still we picked at skin, planned

      more exploits where we’d blame

      all damage on bigger kids, their crew.

      Where are those girls who used to shout my name?

      Back then, who cared about a man,

      what one could do for us, what claims

      a man might make? I miss them, my noisy fans.

      Where are those girls who used to know my name?

       GROWN-UP SHOES

      How could I forget

      your cruel, inflexible soles,

      chunky, stacked heels

      pitching me forward to wobble

      like those Fisher-Price dolls

      that didn’t fall down,

      ankle straps burning

      into tender skin, leaving

      red welts that softened to scars

      days later? The heel cups

      flayed skin, left blisters,

      forced me to walk funny,

      to limp and weep at my first

      boy-girl party, a sixth-grade

      graduation celebration.

      How eagerly I’d awaited

      your coming, pleased

      when Mother let me choose you

      from a mail order catalog’s

      pages, how stylish you looked

      there—beige to match

      my party dress, 2 ½ inches high

      to make me tall, slim,

      give me legs and calves

      to make the other girls go home.

      But what looked beige

      on the page looked yellowed

      on my feet, what looked sexy

      in photos made my legs

      into stalks, feet into boats.

      So I didn’t dance with that boy

      who’d been hitting me all year,

      or walk to the table loaded

      with cake, chips, punch.

      I sat, hard plastic chair

      under my flat rear,

      flower in my hair losing

      each petal, toes jammed together,

      barely peeking from the hole

      at the tip of each sorry shoe.

       PERFECT RIDE

      It may have been a hand-me-down,

      a dull olive green, but I wanted

      my sister’s bike more than

      anything, impatient to grow

      past my baby bike, its training

      wheels, childish fringe.

      I wanted to ride in the street,

      not on the sidewalk, to know

      the feel of bumpy tires over

      uneven asphalt, rearing back

      so the front wheel rose

      into the air, magnificent.

      I wanted the speed the older kids

      took for granted, rush of furious

      pedaling, no hands on handlebars.

      Maybe I’d juice it up, paint

      it red with racing stripes,

      wrap my radio to one handlebar

      with a bunch of rubber bands.

      Maybe I’d race the boys

      on this old three-speed,

      winning though their bikes

      were bigger, tougher—motocross models,

      savage ten-speeds. So when I rode,

      I rode, whipping around corners,

      dodging cars and double dutch games,

      jeering at little girls who still

      drew hopscotch grids on safe sidewalks.

      No wonder they didn’t help me

      when I hit a rock and tumbled

      forward, laughing louder as I

      picked glass from palms, elbows,

      my knees small messes of blood.

      Weeks later, when I was ready

      to ride again, to pedal

      where the big kids pedaled,

      I found the front tire flat, limp,

      so I gave up, kicked it to a corner,

      didn’t pester my father to patch

      then pump the leaky tire.

      Sulky child, I no longer cared,

      my ride no longer perfect or intact,

      boasts no longer effortless.

      That bike grew rust in the garage,

      no one to stir its spokes.