Читать книгу Confessions of a Barefaced Woman - Allison Joseph - Страница 14

Where have they gone, those girls who ran

the dusty urban streets I knew?

We came in every shade: blue-black to tan,

alert to find some mischief to pursue.

We’d run our one-block avenue,

ashy legs caught up in speedy games,

frantic to chase a ball somebody threw.

Where are those girls who used to sing my name?

We’d duck behind a car or garbage can,

tripping on the laces of our shoes,

knees crashing into asphalt, the span

from thigh to knee bruised and blue

from falls and skids. We’d unscrew

the caps of hydrants, hair untamed

as we danced in spray, broke that taboo.

Where are those girls who used to chant my name?

We’d dig through mud, despite the ban

our mothers yelled at us, the slew

of illnesses we’d get from dirty hands.

Our dirty scabs and scars accrued

but still we picked at skin, planned

more exploits where we’d blame

all damage on bigger kids, their crew.

Where are those girls who used to shout my name?

Back then, who cared about a man,

what one could do for us, what claims

a man might make? I miss them, my noisy fans.

Where are those girls who used to know my name?