Eleven Years Old

It smells
Like laundry and pine needles and restless girls
Bunked together in a stuffy cabin, damp and cool
Darting eyes search, awkward bodies gather in old sweatshirts for warmth
Fingers of rain tap against foggy glass, insistent and impatient
Drawing the girls out, offering freedom to the young and wild

A cleansing rinse in the deluge. Upturned faces joyful and wild
Scrubbed pink. Urged to forget inequitably doled out changes and unfamiliar smells
Raindrops dance with happy girls, brave, not too impatient
To grow up. The storm is the kingdom of little girls
Back in the cabin, trials with makeup, piercings, budding bodies ripe with warmth
Emit an uncontrollable heat, urging little girls to slow down, be cool

The summer air, washed clean, releases the burden on narrow shoulders to be so cool
Still, showers of pine needles carry a hint of something wild
Steam rises from wet grass as warmth
Returns suddenly. She catches something, smells
Fall in the air like a promise, and walks away unnoticed, from the other girls
Who like her are uncertain, and impatient

The unfamiliar aches in her body leave her anxious and impatient
The breeze shake youthful tangles in her hair, blows cool
Branches against bare arms yet offer protection from the prying eyes of the girls
Who judge, as she too now does, with labels that stick, too timid, too wild
Too fast, too slow. Rebellious urges locked in small bodies, musky smells
Alone in the wet branches, she sighs, hidden, safe in the embrace’s warmth

Night’s fire glows hot, but inclusion in the huddle offers real warmth
Giggles over blackened marshmallows, melted chocolate, impatient
For the innocent stickiness of s’mores, the way that childhood smells
When girls can be just girls for a little longer, buried under blankets against the cool
Night. The nurturing fire holds back the mantle of wild
Flickering soft light, innocent smiles, sweet girls

Boys will be boys they say, but what of our changelings? Our girls
Who struggle to choose—which path will provide warmth,
When is it ok to let loose and scream, to be wild
It’s a trick, there are penalties for each choice. She is alone, worried, impatient
Stomping muddy boots into hard ground, she hopes she seems aloof enough, cool
Wet ashes from the night fire mix with early morning smells

The rugged landscape, wild, releases the awkward girls
Amid a confused gumbo of smells, pine scented air, stifling warmth
Which way to go, impatient, burning hot, trying to be cool