Apr/May 2001  •   Poetry  •   Special Feature


by Julie King


You are thirteen and pregnant
and don't know who the father

is but do know he doesn't want
to know. You think about peaches

on the windowsill and their velvet
skin and how it wouldn't hurt

if you bit into one right now,
before they are ready. You wish

for the fourth of July carnival
when you rode and rode the ferris

wheel and when you reached up
your arms, the air pushed your palms

in a friendly way. You wonder
how much of this matters and if it

doesn't, why do you want to run
down the middle of the street

yelling fire to the junkyard dogs
free in their yards or anyone else

who will tear out your throat?