she always liked her peaches
unpeeled, in lukewarm static
as the little ones watched in horror,
cringing as if she had eaten a cat.
the same little boys
who stood around the mailbox,
counting the dents their basketball left
and slippers lost at the neighbors’ pool.
she rode her bike in an off-white shirt
not knowing “jailbait”
applied to more people
than the falsely unbridled Britney Spears.
vowing to be her,
the steps, but not the voice.
cheekbones aside from raffia dyed
every color in which Ring Pops are sold.
all the children across the street
can attest to an unripe truth,
a lifetime when moderates died in the swell
of spinach soufflées and soured zest.