Don't Tell

little girl blue, that’s what they call you

down on the corner by the drug store,

probably because the neon sign

bathes you in azure and white,

like you’re a mermaid in relief,

when really you’re just a girl

who knows too much—

probably much more

than you should

the boys who come out of the store,

carrying their candy cigarettes

and their packs of chewing gum,

eye you like you’re meat

in a butcher’s shop,

all the ready

for a taste

but you laugh at them because

they think they’re hot stuff,

all cool with their bicycles

and the sporty cars borrowed

from their parents’ garages—

they have no idea

what love means,

these naïve kids

you act as if you know yourself

(you’ve read things, seen things

on television and in magazines,

but all of it was a bit much),

but you’re just guessing,

thinking you know

the full story

but in ten years or more,

you’ll be a wife clustered away

in a prim and proper house,

a kid on your hip and

one at your knees,

locked in line,

so much lost

your mother would tell you—

she probably has tried—but

there’s already so much sorrow

that she may be protecting you

from yourself and others,

a pretty cage,

a wingless bird