History Lesson

 

My eighth-grade teacher

said things like,

“Don’t be so smart.”

She looked at me with distaste

over the rim of glasses worn

on a beaded chain

that swung against her bosom.

 

I inadvertently took her advice

and shoplifted

eyeliner and earrings.

I smoked Kools

wore steel-toed boots

and a faux black leather jacket

with silver studs. I got felt up

and fucked over by wannabe biker boys

from the suburbs.

I got mono.

 

My high school report cards said,

“Lynn does not apply herself.”

Clearly they didn’t see how hard I tried

being a biker’s girl.

 

Today, parts of me

from seventh grade

remain unclaimed. I imagine

they are stored in an old locker

whose combination I used to know.

I’d love to take them out

dress them in sweats and sneakers

and tell them to run as fast as they can

towards the smartest girl they know.