Thesis

I wrote some words,
When I was a little girl.
They were misspelled
Barely legible
Crayon words of first-grade
About my favorite cat and why
I loved my little brother.

As the numbers rose and I learned
How to actually spell,
How to write inside the lines,
In sloppy ink cursive
Somewhat legible,
I wrote about the book we had been reading
In class,
And stared out the window at the autumn
Bleeding wild all over the sky and ground.

And I learned how to compose an essay
With a beginning, middle, and end
Neatly and perfectly
With a bent head
Watched by cinderblock walls
Who ate away time, and though the sun
Was shining, I didn’t go outside
Because.

And my favorite cat died,
And my little brother grew up to smoke too many cigarettes
And I wrote a beautiful essay that got me pretty A’s
And a gown and a cap and a walk around a stage
But not a boyfriend, not a friend, because I learned
That people don’t care if I smile, if I think I am smart,
Decent-looking, won’t care, even if I write them pretty words.

No one tells their daughters that they’re not going to be beautiful.