Seventh Grade

We float the rink
in Kool & the Gang ovals.
Our skates are heavy off the floor.
Our lips are slick with Bonne Bell.

Soft pretzels turn slowly
under their lamp. Girls lean
on the counter, girls
vulnerable as the backs
of their own necks.

They are in line and I am in line.
They are dreadful and my mouth
is a stuck gate. Somewhere above
the domed roof rests a spine of clouds.
I don't think about it much

but when I do, I'm tired of it.
When I don't, I'm like
the other girls, blank
and pretty as a scarf. Seething
underneath, where I've never been.