There were gun drills.
I was twelve, wearing pointe
shoes painted camouflage,
trying not to drop the wooden
gun, wondering why we were
hanging Maggie on the cross
in her wheelchair, wanting
more than anything to please
the crazy woman screaming
in my face. Normal kids watched
Cosby and teased me for being
too skinny, when Patsy poked
my thighs and made me hate
mirrors, if not myself. I did not
know much about Vietnam,
but I would read my prop
dictionary while she yelled
at someone else for a change.
I unfocused my eyes and
passed out, to escape.
My mother says it made me strong.
In many ways, she isn’t wrong.
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