by Laura Grace Weldon
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| file photo… not the author |
I lived the lives I read in books.
I wandered English moors,
raced my horse past Russian wolves,
befriended dolphins, spoke in whistles,
made my home in a hollow tree.
Made a pact with Kim—we’d never
grow breasts, agreeing the encumbrance
made girls act stupid. Boys, stupider.
I’d grown well past playing house
so no longer stuffed a baby doll
under my shirt, letting it drop
into my hands to make me a mama.
I hadn’t grown out of stuffed animals,
Barbies, hula hoops, or bubbles.
At ten I rode my bike, climbed trees,
giggled with girlfriends. I wasn’t old
enough to babysit. Wasn’t sure
what sex was, exactly.
Now a ten-year-old girl
is deemed old enough
in Ohio to be the mother
of her rapist’s child.
Laura Grace Weldon served as Ohio’s 2019 Poet of the Year and is the author of four books. Laura lives on a ramshackle Ohio farm and as a book editor.
