Splinter Girl
For years, there had been talk
of a new gymnasium and cafeteria.
Of gleaming steel fixtures,
linoleum un-scuffed. Of bloody, brewing
fistfights, of the boys we’d one day marry.
In a schoolyard sliver,
talk of babies pulled
from there.
Of Annie’s deadly blue-tipped nails, state
of permanent detention.
I say Annie in the now. I swipe
at my weary eyes, prod
the bulbs. Inhale the sharp factory scent
of a rubber kickball, fresh.
Taste pineapple chunks in syrup, chocolate milk.
Oh, Annie.
Always Annie.
How she cut the single-file lines
like butter, how she walked around
so slick and dark.
Her parents hire men
to dig up the backyard like rodents
for a swimming pool,
I behold the silhouette of her:
Annie’s sequined one-piece, breasts
from certain angles.
Where song breaks
and stereo gurgles,
sun beats down.
I am afraid
of the deepwater.
She says she’ll push me in
when I’m not looking
so that I learn to swim,
though she never does.
Annie is cruel,
but I know she cries alone
to her supper. Sogs the bread.
It’s tears that give her eyes
their nightmare glitter
in the hallways, in the swimming pool
at dusk. Annie’s eyes are planets
that I orbit, like debris.
Hair, a fur wrap. Mink stole
with chemical streaks
like sunlight too harsh.
Blood-plump Annie,
Annie Clotted Cream.
Popping bubbles
with her sugar teeth.
Who glides,
treadmill in the living room.
Casting spells.
Says cunt
and carbohydrate
in Language Arts. Blurs her eyes
at sleepover. Who warns
I’ll shut you in that closet.
Closet is a sucking space.
I splinter.
I say
It was Annie.
Annie did it.
Annie split
the universe in half.
