Jennifer

She sits on the hood of her boyfriend’s car,
the wax gone white, ready to be rubbed.
On the door, in the smear, she has written
her name in smooth capitals: JENNIFER.
She leans back on the cool windshield, pulls
her suntanned legs to her chest. She pinches
a thigh. Sighs. Twists her hair into a knot
on her head. Three doors down her mother
starts lunch. Her brother jumps, touches
the ceiling. Ten years from now his prints
will still be there. She feels a sharp pain
in her side and bends to it, not knowing
a small pink egg had burst through her ovary,
that it will leave a scar the shape of a baby’s
clipped nail. She hopes her dad doesn’t
call her in before her boyfriend gets back.
She heard today in school that the world
could end. She can’t imagine it. She closes
her eyes and thinks about her boyfriend’s
muscles, the soft yellow chamois that will
snap from his hands. She thinks about later
tonight, at the drive-in, how they’ll sit
so close in this car, how it will shine.

:: Dorianne Laux, Awake (1990)