At Fourteen,
Knowing Nothing
Beauty,
she was told, must have something to do with sex,
something
about the way the parts would fit together,
or were
expected to fit together,
always,
for her, the last thing on her mind.
Wouldn't
someone tell her, instead,
about the
stairs leading down to the river,
where
blackbirds dance and children scramble,
learning
to count each step, in Spanish,
the icy
water carrying bits of earth to their new home,
where a
boat rocks incessantly,
a cradle,
she thinks, we might make for ourselves,
under
blankets, lying still, counting to a hundred,
feeling
the tug of the line reeling us in,
cincuenta y uno, cincuenta y dos, the rope
sliding,
our boat wanting to drift,
noventa y uno, noventa y dos,
and for
the one who would tell her this story
she would
wait
snug
beside the river
listening
for beauty,
whatever
it was,
something
to do with sex,
ciento uno,
ciento dos.