On Turning Sixteen
That August day, big sister and I
are standing – alone – at the bus stop.
‘I’m legal!’ I cry out. It will be another
sixteen months until this is more than bluster,
but I’ve shaken high school off like a fashion
consigned to history: the toga; leg warmers.
For today life has transformed
into a rack of stylishly-clad hangers,
different selves to try on in the changing
room of new adulthood. I rip them from
their wire skeletons, run with them in a pile,
certain I will wear them all soon enough
in the parade of great occasions life will
surely become. So much to look forward to –
trashed curfews, nightclubs, poetry read aloud
in the soft light of lovers’ lamps. And I am
still slim – everything looks great on me, like
sarcasm, optimism, swerving pregnancy. And
whilst we’re waiting at the bus stop
for the tardy bus to come, we are yet hopeful
a cousin’s teen pregnancy, another’s delinquencies
are just two ways of many; that there is some
third way for people like us. A track I
must mark out, walking alone, just a flashlight
to hold, in the mud. Still, ‘I’m legal!’ I call out again –
as if sending my jocularity ahead to brighten
the road. There will be consensual sex
and contraceptives to lighten the load. And just maybe
a bright-eyed boy, who’ll break into me gently,
as if I’m the home of someone he could love.