Adolescence is a Disorder of the Mouth
“Your necklines are too low,” she says, and scowls
at the cloud-tops of my cleavage, as she does now
all through every dinner. Her dad inhales
the minestrone through his nose; I blush
in its steam. Like a tourist straining through veils
of haze, I gawk as her breasts erupt beneath
a succession of clingy tees—today in B cups
but bursting through the alphabet. It’s sweet,
maybe, how we stare, but the air becomes hypoxic
when she pronounces on my lipstick, the key
of my lullabies, the trash I watch. I agree.
I am “low-brow.” My pitch is catastrophic.
But it’s better when I say so. She is too
perfect. A voice from a peak. No fear. No rue.