girl posse

In my girl posse, we only ever write out of silence or rage. We look up across the table between drum beats and laugh at our metaphors- suppose they weren’t metaphors. We prop our feet up on each other’s laps and tug on each other’s socks trying to pick pronouns. A woven hat and some wide glasses, we knit between verses, sip cooled, hibiscus tea over the old things men have said. We joke until we’re nearly naked, then swoon while dionysus tap dances somewhere on top of the paper scraps and cut hair. None of us have ever doubted that we could fly- a few of us have actually been to Neverland and the rest have no plans to go. Two of us- a lovely couple- are nymphs just beginning to grow flowers behind their ears. They know exactly what they’re doing when they cast spells or whisper them at the moon. The idea of a mood being caused by something astonishes us. We all used to want to be president, and when the topic came up in class we’d debate the loudest conservative like we could legalize marijuana by lighting up on the front steps, but now we are cutting butterflies out of magazines from 2004 and flipping through photo albums from before the divorce and wondering if there will ever be another photo album and deciding not to call that boy and pairing a woven hat with some wide glasses and tearing at our fingernails. Pretty soon we’ll find out by accident if the amount of coffee in a mug affects the growth of mold. Isn’t this all we ever dreamed of? A smoke break from not working. New ways to wear a mini dress on camera. And thoughts and thoughts of being all over him.