Learning to Walk in Two Worlds

By Rae Rose

Skinny as tree limbs,
we began to grow curves
as if we were turning
into musical instruments.
We hid our mandolin hips
in big shirts as we walked,
picking plums, making up songs.
We counted –
if a car passed us three times
we’d find a place to hide.
At the corner store men stared,
spoke words I will never repeat.
“Have You Seen Us?” flyers,
stuffed into our mailboxes,
began to make sense.
Girls’ body parts were found
in canyons, in creek-beds.
Oprah said to yell fire, not rape,
strangers will help fight a fire.
We were learning to walk in two worlds.
We were learning to hide from men.
A plum’s skin was warm and bitter,
a plum’s flesh sweeter than we expected.
Blossoms in our hair, we sang,
juice trickled down our chins.
We threw plum pits
into canyons, into creek-beds,
tiny skulls wasps hunted.
Life is chance. We learned
some trees are touched by fire,
some bear fruit.

Previously published in Contemporary World Literature, February 2011