My Arm Is Riddled with Splinters

My older cousin and her friend are

spilling secrets.

I want them to be mine. I am young and

already lonely, can already feel my body

growing into a slow, disappointing slump.

I drink in their stories like a potion.

There’s the one about the

boy with the long fingers

who held her hand while

they sat under a tree and

shared a bag of churritos, the

chamoy so strong it stained

their lips a bright blood red.

It was almost as good as

kissing, but not quite as

sweet.

There’s the tip they read in

a women’s magazine about

leaving a pair of silk red

panties under your pillow

and dreaming of the man

you are meant to love, and

maybe that man will also

dream of you, vividly

enough so he will

recognize you on the street.

There’s the one about the girl

who disappeared for almost

a year and came back paler

and with fuller breasts. The

boys stuck to her

like flies

but she swatted them away,

too old and too young at

the same time for them.

I’m not sorry for what I’ve heard, but

still I’m punished.

In the kitchen, my cousin will pry

forty splinters from my arm. She

will be careful with the needle,

and I will not cry.