Girls brown,
the summers cook them, heft them
up into their chests, dust their eyes,
eat their nests. Have them count their hangnails,
blemishes, discolorations on their necks,
have them navigate their hills through
jean shorts, baby doll dresses, tank tops
that harbor language representing
gardens in full bloom, nerdy interests, stars
that dot dot dot their minds,
internet lovers emerging from the wires,
springing boys bounding themselves
up brick walls, down waterfalls, through the piping,
right out the showerhead they come,
touting new muscles, slick
hair, absurdly white teeth, high
IQ’s (or so they claim) and those girls
suck their stomachs in, avoid direct contact,
practice the sashaying of their hips,
whip of their shined manes, laughs
that convey the proper things needed to convey,
whistle in their heads, lay themselves
face up in their beds so to not
hamper their breasts, hoping they may yet grow
to size C, loose their minds in the rat race,
Photoshop their already made-up faces,
the universe resting on the back
of a boy; what is the boy resting on?
It’s boys all the way down.