When I was twelve I would
swing for hours, riding the air
on the rusty set beside the bus stop
at the corner of Olive and Portage.
Puberty was around the corner,
my dreams the shy stuff of
romance, vague, like golden-
boy Illya Kuryakin, that cipher.
I knew he was looking for me. I
pumped my legs faster and faster
and waited for him, my life,
waited for my life to begin.
When I was twelve I would
swing for hours, riding the air
on the rusty set beside the bus stop
at the corner of Olive and Portage.
Puberty was around the corner,
my dreams the shy stuff of
romance, vague, like golden-
boy Illya Kuryakin, that cipher.
I knew he was looking for me. I
pumped my legs faster and faster
and waited for him, my life,
waited for my life to begin.