I survived Stoneybrook, Connecticut
by gorging on Doritos, gummy bears,
and red licorice, plastic-wrapped jewels
hidden in the locked diary of my bedroom.
This town of mothers drunk on margaritas
while passing out Halloween candy. This town
of fathers who talk loudly and leave a single button
of their polos open. We knew we'd found
our niche. I admit it, I slept on the job,
snuck bites of Ben and Jerry's Phish Food
and frozen chicken nuggets, I snooped.
Once I found some mother's secret stash:
loads of KY Jelly, technicolored condoms
and a smudged picture of Jonathan Taylor Thomas.
This is the stuff unremembered, not written;
you know, the real stuff:
Kristy's coming out, Mary Anne's imaginary
Logan (that Jan Brady of a girl), Stacy dealing
Ativan to NYU undergrads in Washington Square Park.
Here are my almond eyes seared open,
here's my braided carpet of black hair
twisted into a side ponytail. Sugar packets
spill from my jean pockets as I empty
them for bus change, my last white