She moves into our old house, finds my diary.
After she burns it, I’m invited to spend the night
but can’t find my sleeping bag or my passport.
I should be a child but only know word games.
We play in the Dirt Room; her mother brings Fresca.
“Why,” I ask, “is my old bedroom a turnip plot?
Who’s been sharpening their teeth on my trundle bed?”
They’re stripping the blonde furniture: such a bitch,
& everyone on earth is helping to cook except for me.
There’s an ancient training-bra behind the frozen peas.
I’m blindfolded, levitating, they drop me like a 2x4.
In the morning I finally get it: my hair’s all gone.
Somebody’s chopped it all off, irrevocably;
my friend offers me half her French toast.
I howl to her dad, “do you understand
your daughter symbolically castrated me?”
He listens carefully then diagnoses the problem:
“You need a real man, not a boy,” he says.
Later he’ll wear the hell down & out of me
until I understand the verb to have, a teddy.