SLUT
In the parking lot of Churchill’s Garden Center, my mother
turned to me and said, I found the pills. I asked What pills?
though I knew. The birth control pills. Are you having sex?
Yes, I said, with pride. She whipped the words out,
fast as a striking snake,
You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re too young. Are you in a relationship?
Though I was, I said, No.
Her face cinched tight and she turned in profile, considering her options.
And I could see her jaw shifting, slowly. She turned to face me
and blurted, Who the hell are you having sex with?
Different people, I said, though there was only one.
She flushed red and sound issued from deep in her throat.
You … stop … now. Don’t you have any self-respect?!
Do you want to be a slut?!
Do you want people to call you a slut?!
I’m going to tell the pharmacist to stop giving you the pill.
Then I’ll get pregnant, Mom, and people will certainly talk about that,
I said with internal glee. Why are you doing this?
she demanded, with fury closely held behind her teeth. After a long silence,
I said, to play the field, Mom. To see what’s out there.
Her face stiffened, tighter. Her lids clamped closed as she turned the ignition.
Gripping the wheel tightly, she drove the AMC Pacer the twenty miles
to our home, as I began to describe the boys who came to my mind
and the fantastical circumstances of our sex.
I gave Red a blow job in the woods near School Street.
I had sex with Daniel in our biology classroom after school …
I struck out for myself, for a realm independent
of my mother’s strictures, her angry enforcement.
And Miles, I said, (my actual boyfriend, who I adored),
We’ve had sex a few times. And it was so good, I thought,
our bodies straining, reaching for more, and more.
I did not share this particular delight with my mother,
as it came close to an admission that there was only one boy.
Her face was heavy with sadness and rage.
Giddy, I leaned out the window of
the obsolete Pacer and yelled out the names of
my purported partners. I sang them out,
past the white Colonials on Walnut Street,
prudish with their tiny windows and doors,
past the dilapidated candy store on High Street
whose charms I had outgrown,
past the seamy, doldrum Seabrook dog track
where I was not old enough to place bets,
and oh, so far past the home of Ann Fieldsend,
the actual town tramp, who was currently pregnant.
Finally I sat, satisfied.
I remember my mother’s livid, punitive face, her roiling silence,
her crippling grip on the wheel.
And it dawned on me, I’ve won,
and I resolved never to tell her the truth.
—from Rattle #78, Winter 2022
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist
__________
Elizabeth Hill: “I am a retired administrative law judge who decided suits between learning disabled children and their school systems. I live in Harlem, New York, with my husband and two irascible cats. I write poetry because I love words, and because I hope to connect with others’ emotions.”
