In sixth grade, we got in
trouble for something.
I can’t remember what.
The other girls cried,
and quivered, promised
they’d never do it again.
Their punishment: lines
of apologetic text. I sneered;
I chose the quicker option.
Paddle me hard and fast.
The principal hefted the big
oak plank down. He’d thought
I’d go the safer route.
But I had little patience, even then.
Just punish me–
so I can move on. Next things
were much more interesting.
Broken boys, whiskey bottles, back seats.
I believed in muscling past the tepid
waters of small town life.
What I knew: jump
into the fire, don’t stand around
waiting for the pot to boil.
Push your hand through
the glass; let your body hit
ground, your feet pound
the dirt, soil clumps flying.
Life came fast, a spring flood.
Reprimand halted my nature;
I had no time for interruptions.
Beat me, chastise me,
correct me, but don’t detain me.
I bent my little girl butt over.
It was the beginning of many bending
overs. Eyes half-open. Breath
ready. Body poised and tense.
Already I was learning the art of faked
acquiescence–to be the sly container, the shameless
receptacle. Butter won’t melt in this mouth.
–Art by Milan Vopálenský & Esmahan Özkan