Young girls sit on front porches.  Early evening.  The whole world aglow.  Boys off somewhere, or else grope at them, unwanted.  11 or 12.

You are the morning on a summer day, skipping down the street with the sun; a small girl toddling after the pigeons, arms outstretched, hands opening and closing, grabbing for something she wants but doesn’t want.  A mother’s admonition: Don’t.  

Playing in Marquette Pool. 13.  Parading new on hot concrete.  A pool so packed with people the flash of blue an afterthought.  Here and gone.  Bodies glisten with oil or sunscreen hopping on pavement.  Skin.  Boys taking what is theirs, owning it, you.  Their words a kiss in the air melting: you are so pretty.

My mother used to say: Those are your privates–as if somehow you had control over what you did or what was done.

There are always things you keep to yourself.  You don’t want to see.