So I finally got rid of my old computer tonight. In transferring the files I got to reading some of the (very little) poetry I wrote in 2002-2003, and found this one.


Katina K.
was my girlhood friend.
Well, I was more her friend
than she was mine.

But Princesses are chaste and pure!When she condescended to see me
we played with Barbie dolls,
her collection of purses,
and the lipstick she’d stolen
from her mother.

Katina moved to Texas
when I was eleven
and she was thirteen.
By that time,
she wasn’t speaking to me much.
She kept insisting
that Ken and Barbie
French kiss.
It made me uncomfortable,
I preferred the Slip ‘n’ Slide.
But Katina said it hurt her boobs
when she fell on it,
and flaunted the little white strap
of her training bra.
Her big brother was a real jerk.
He used to pinch her chest
and shout, “Mosquito bites!”
Katina acted as if
she didn’t mind
but when we were alone
would cry like always.

Although she’d deny it later,
if you asked her.

The day her family left,
she sat in the station wagon
and played with the manuals
in the glove box.
I stood on the curb sobbing,
that she would look at me
just for a second
to let me see
that she felt something.

But she didn’t.

There have been men like her.

If I could find her now,
I’d ask Katina
if she ever loved me.
I’d would ask,
If I had done
all the things you asked me to,
would you love me then?

And I know
she would say,
I don’t think
we were even
really friends.