IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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GATE-CRASHER

Linda France

She smiles like Sheba, says her name's a gift. Mother thinks she's catching up on homework. Her wide mouth freezes as the party hots up, when they remove the syringe's red cap, when they ease the needle into her arm, when the white boys shoot her full of smack. An orange sliver of moon drips citrus; Catherine-wheels spin inside her throat. A seventeen-year-young roller-coaster hurtling; blur of policemen, nurses, her mother who named her. Back at school she's a star for a week or two. The prick in her arm heals; not the voodoo nightmare, her unasked-for gift, lies.

 
 
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