I am you in the mid-eighties, two full moons
for eyes sitting in a car next to that boy you
pretend not to remember the name of.
Smoothing your palm down the back of your
hair dry and static. You can’t see me yet, I
am the bitten down nails on the raw tips of
your ringless fingers, mild post-teen acne
and all of the tears you cry over your mild
post-teen acne. I am your eleven pm week
-end curfew and your old-fashioned parent
-ing style, your scruffy shoes, soft nose and
eventually your 32 DD’s. You don’t know yet
when I will come or where i will come from,
only that one stray blonde strand will continue
the umbilical line, where every blemish is
an epitaph of the skin that came before it.

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