sadie hawkins & our hair
full of hindenburg fire

she sits on a bench in
the park-- pushing back 
the hem of her cuticles--
& november is a face
laughed full of leaves--
she's catching love with
a thick leash of rope because
sadie hawkins knew that 
that freedom was a mouthful
of white-picket-fence boy--
my first dance 
in high school was
a sadie hawkins dance--
as if a 9th grade girl
could have a say in what
boy she picked to excavate
her body for a night &
every 9th grade girl knows
sadie hawkins-- she yells
at them to call them 
"little sluts" as they pass
her bench in the park--
she was a homily 
woman-- still a "girl" 
at 35 because she was
doomed to be a fisher of men--
she shift for
them like gold--asking
for god to keep her name 
under his tongue--
oh we all knew sadie hawkins--
believed her-- trusted her-- 
learn from her & with our
butterfly nets out we
hunt for red velvet cupcake
love from the bake sale 
in the lobby--
oh how they would eat us--
our soccer goals bellies filling
up with disco balls-- 
he brought
hammers & picks-- a shovel
& a pan to collect my pieces in--
no fourteen year old girl could have 
known yet that boys eat geodes--
use women's own ropes to tie
them to their park benches--
gnaw open with teeth-- our 
bodies crowded each other 
like gymnasiums reverberating 
with light & sinking balloons--
we fell like hindenburgs--
each & every one of us as we
thought about all the times
we had run away from her
when we walked late at night through
the park on sleepovers--
heard her calling
"slut" & "Whore" into the disco ball
moon as if attempting to banish those
words forever from underneath 
her tongue-- when she was done screaming
she would sit still for a few moments--
panting & sweaty from the moist
lips of august-- fail to 
light a cigarette & instead set
flames in her hair & laughing
like a phoenix she told us
to run & never believe anything they
tell us--
in the bathroom mirror 
i stared at my own smudged face
after the dance & never felt so
devoured--
i sat on the toilet & cried--
ankles sore from being perched
in black heels-- this was only
the beginning of what it was like
to have a girl-body--
the art of giving away yourself--
piece by piece so you're 
easier for him to swallow-- 
my body became a gymnasium of
sound-- i lit
the match & held it close to
my hair-- considering how fast
my bleached hair would erupt
in fire-- i blew it out & dropped
the match stick in the sink--
it sizzled softly like a faint
neck kiss-- a brand-- a burn--
& i'm still unlearning 
the doors he opened for
me on ever inch of skin--
this is a prayer to sadie hawkins--
the patron saint of 9th grade girls--
we believe so firmly in you
& they'll tell us
we choose to dance 
these bodies into ash
smudged on the bathroom mirror--