The boldness of mismatched socks 
and forgotten white bras.


I don't want to be ten again
because I know too much now.

I don't want to be ten I just
want to worry about baking enough
chocolate macadamia nut cookies
to sell at the farmers market
on Saturday and pug dog necklaces
and what flavor of chap stick I 
want to wear-- and it will still always
be blue raspberry--
I want to worry about shoe laces
instead of frayed skirt hems
and stocking runs up my stomach
like a surgical incision. I want to worry
about forgetting to wear
the one dindgy white bra that scratches
under my arms and makes
unnecessary crisscross lines
beneath my softball shirts-- plague
me with strap sliding anxiety.

I don't want to be ten again
but I want the luxurious abandon
of the body of a ten year old. I want
to be confused by every turn of the
hair on my chin-- I want to worry
about growing a beard. I want to 
shave my legs like a sinner--
get down on my knees
and praise the swelling of
my hips. I want to fill
the popcorn bowl of my stomach
with corner brownies and
the delicate cuisine of stove top
macaroni and cheese kits--
I want to eat frozen waffles
on the porch like a goddess
legs spread apart like a 
unfinished book chapter on
the shoulder of the couch-- 
I want to sit the same in 
creek jeans and pleated skirts.

I don't want to be ten
because I know too much now
but I do want her to know
that I don't want her to know
too much-- I want her to 
go on beinng enamored of
every terrible curl her
body takes--feed her thighes
with everything that
ever tasted like love and forget to
wear bras while mismatching
socks on purpose.