stuck in high school, she sat
and studied his favorite book
in french. she dreamed about how
he'd be so impressed
if she talked about philosophy with him.
she thought about the dinners she'd cook,
the muffins she'd bake,
the cuddles she'd give,
how she'd pin him on her pink and white
little girl bed,
how she wouldn't shake;
she'd make him nervous instead.
a straight a student,
she blamed chemical reactions,
neurons firing, for this condition
which made her suddenly realize
she'd never felt especially accomplished
about writing an excellent composition,
not when her biological clock was ticking.
and as much as she'd always admired
smart, sexy, confident women,
that image of herself was crumbling.
even though she'd promised herself
she wouldn't be one of those pathetic girls,
even though she'd told herself
she'd never be kitty maule—
all she could see was
arriving at a field of flowers
to realize there were thousands of roses
just as pretty as she was.