Prom Politics

In 8th grade, all of my friends went to cheerleading clinic,

came to school so sore they couldn’t move, practicing herkies and toe touches

with tired hamstrings, anxious

about tryouts.

I didn’t participate, had no interest

in riding on a bus to away games with the football team.

Despite what you’ve been led to believe, I wasn’t under the bleachers.

Sometimes, I simply wasn’t there, had something better to do

than spend my hours away from school in my own zipcode

with the people I saw everydamnday, couldn’t imagine

spending more time witnessing the contest to have the most conquests,

Senior boys (or are they men?)

dangling prom dates as bait,

carrots in the backseat

of second-hand cars,

gifts to unwrap (so they say),

reputations to slay—

doesn’t matter if she did or didn’t;

she was there to give in

after the pretense of a fight

dreaming of a carnation

pinned

to her discarded dress,

clapping for the queen.