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?
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.
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.
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