She wears her braids piled high

like an African princess,

skin the color of latte, tinged

with a hint of cream.  Her bones sharp,

full fat lips that the boys can’t help imagining

the things they might do.

In tight yoga pants she sashays

across the room like it’s a Parisian runway,

and not the dingy tiled floor of a run-down school

dumped in the middle of nowhere for kids like her—

kicked out of day school for copulating in the bathroom

with two boys from the football team, her best friend

standing by taking pictures.

 

I imagine her in another life—twenty pounds

lighter and sitting in a make-up chair, hyped up

on something.  In front of the camera she is all

glamour and gloss, pouty lips the perfect

salmon pink.  That’s it, baby, don’t move.  You are

beautiful, you are perfect.  And she wants to believe it,

so far away from Normal, Illinois, or Defiance,

Missouri, or a million other hick towns.  It doesn’t matter

where.  She will take the pill put in front of her

or snort the white dust and never look back.

 

She sits in the back of the room,

her flawless face gazing vacuously

out the window at the endless fields of corn

stretching for miles.  This is her life

as far as the eye can see.