Both of us were small, though she,
compliant, soft as white bread,
spent two years in Beginner Swim
for fear of ducking under water.
I’d bike downhill past her house,
where she nestled among four sisters
and brothers, my hands raised
from the handlebars, showing off.
That summer, I sheared Sharon’s
dishwater blond hair at her house,
though outside, away from May,
her harried mother who’d hustle
in seconds from basement to back
yard clothesline, from kitchen to
car port. My plan: to make Sharon’s
bowl cut chic, sleek.
Feeling professional, mature,
I used a spray bottle for styling,
finished with children’s scissors.
I still see Sharon seated on a chair
in her driveway, me standing
above her, both hidden behind
her father’s black Ford truck,
beige tufts sprouting from her head
like clumps of damp hamster fur.
I cried, though we both knew Sharon
would be fine. I was confined to
our house and yard, punished behind
an invisible fence, watched May fly
by in her station wagon, her kids waving
popsicle-sticky hands out the windows,
returning from the community pool.
It was not just my aloneness, my shame.
I felt my plans for summer, plans for
a brave, expansive life, each day
cut shorter.
VA Smith
VA Smith’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in dozens of literary journals and anthologies, among them: Southern Review, Calyx, Crab Creek Review, West Trade Review, and Quartet. Kelsay Books published her first and second poetry collections, Biking Through the Stone Age, 2022, and American Daughters 2023. Her manuscript, Adaptations, is slated for publication in 2025. Her poetry has been nominated several times for Pushcart Prizes. A former Liberal Arts Excellence in Teaching Faculty member at Penn State University, she is currently a staff member at River Heron Review, writing, practicing yoga, and home chefing. Learn more about Virginia’s work at vasmithpoetry.com, or on Instagram and YouTube @vasmithpoetry.
