Good Girls

When I grew up,
There were bad girls in white lipstick,
Good girls in shirtwaists.
When I grew up
The truth is: all girls were bad
Our bodies like concealed weapons
Ready to fire.
I'd stare at myself
In the greenish wavy mirror over the sink
In the Port Authority Bus Station ladies' room,
I was alert as if for combat,
I never hung my bag on the hook
On the inside door
I never sat directly on the toilet seat
I never touched the handle of the toilet
Instead, I had mastered
The art of flushing a toilet with my foot
Something I can still do to this day.
As a result, I was never cut, raped, or mugged
My naked body
Was never dumped down an elevator shaft—
A possibility which threatened my imagination.
When I was 14
Only sailors had tattoos
We did not pierce our tongues
Heroin addicts sat on panels at our school
Told us not to smoke pot or we would go mad.
I would have enjoyed
Writing all over my body,
Face and torso, arms and legs
But all I really had to say
Could have fit on the bridge of my nose:
Good-bye. I'm gone.

© Miriam Sagan