And at the time, in my fifteenth year alive but my fourth in the church,
I would have been glad for distraction;
some long savory eleven year old girl or what's it,
with small sprouting breasts
like showing through her shirt
And longish hair all reddish
but not like mine, no.
Much less. And her walk
like much older a woman,
of nineteen, I think.
This I noticed.
Five rows ahead of me and mine
there sat a he-she of fourteen with a nose full of slime,
curly brown hair and thin wire glasses, obviously scented
like awkward puberty;
she who was toppling in upon herself
and her humanity, I can say now, looking back. Flipping her
bible every which way, just like she was told.