Author of WHEN YOU SAY ONE THING AND MEAN YOUR MOTHER
Well that’s not really her but that is her book and this poem is really by her:
by Melissa Broder
This was the game: we would gaze down the barrel
of our lipsticks, waiting for you to finish
band practice. Stalk you in the 7-11 lot.
Where the boys were. Boys. Sparrow spirits on skateboards,
bottles of Tahitian Treat, Rose's Cola,
and blue raspberry Slurpees laced with liquor.
I had the blues 'cause I wanted to be you:
all shit-beers and stars, pentagrams instead of Temple.
Old-school kick flips—no purses—under the low-hung moon,
and you could skin your knees and you could give me
carpet burn all evening in somebody's basement,
trying to lick my nothing-tit, a baby lion
cleaning a china plate. Calluses and nipples,
bass guitars. Cinnamon gum will turn him on,
said the wise women of Seventeen magazine.
What kind of kisser are you? Timid? Sexy? Strong?
Once I opened my eyes and he only had one eye.
He kept his mouth sealed shut. Is there something wrong?
Then you'd heel-flip your Simples, ollie higher
over gutters, down suburb sidewalks, to your mothers
and we'd go tongue the mirror in your honor,
apply silver eyeliner, make scars out of pimples.