Rocket Science
When Chickie and I climbed into the tree
to sit and wait for our periods,
Chickie was an optimist. I wasn’t sure
mine would ever come. But it did
months after Chickie showed off
her belt, the hooks on each end. Swinging
her legs over the branch, she explained
how grown up felt more clearly than
our teacher did in her lecture,
“On Being a Woman,” better
than the grainy black and white film
with its scientific diagrams—
the retort-shaped organ floating
in our girl bodies, the miniature
rockets our brothers were
always trying to get us to touch.
Chickie and I educated ourselves,
studied the pamphlets, got answers
from the books we read.
We believed in science then, in Apollo
and a manned moon. We believed
we had learned all we needed
to know about how it would go
with the boys. We imagined it
was an experiment in simple biology.
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