birth

five days after my fourth birthday an underpaid
leggy blonde babysitter arrived on the doorstep.
she smacked sugary gum and drank dr. pepper
and was not bilingual.
no father's fussiness.
no mother's caution.
promptly locating the landline,
dialing her boyfriend, and leaving me
alone in the living room with my infantile dr. seuss.

the banned beckoned.
lizzie russell with her scabby knees and full-fat peanut butter
poked her head through the window,
grinning all toothless and vapid, six years old.
i opened the door and stole carefully outside.

admittedly, marco polo on the rocks was
not the best idea we've ever had.

my first consequence hit me like a deflated balloon,
lapping waves smacking and sucking at
my indignant nerve endings.
something black and sticky seeping
through my size two trousers.
leaving them dark-stained and blood-soaked
over the shattered skin of my raw knee.

pain like that was illegal. unlawful.
i suckled the second wave, letting the sweetness
slowly settle in my stomach.
wickedness did not arrive grandly or with fanfare,
it was covert and stealthy,
the rip of a knee,
babysitter's horribly inconvenienced grimace,
the stuttering slap of the screen porch door.
some vital thing has cracked in my embryonic sac
and i have let the world in.