We, Young Girls

raised as bodies,
as chalices holding empty purity,
as brides preparing
are not brides.
We are thirteen,
taught to pray
for perfect men,
given instructions
to write wishlists
to be fulfilled by God,
as if God cares
the persons we end up with
prefer pancakes
prefer dogs
are christians
are men.
At girl’s bible study
we write our lists
with pink and purple
Crayola markers,
address the envelopes
to our future selves.
We write a note:
How incredible
it must be
opening this
on your wedding night.
We, young girls forbidden
to expose our shoulders
at summer camp;
we, young girls compared
to pitchers holding
finite amounts of Kool-Aid
( Every time you do it
you pour a drink.
Save your Kool-Aid.
Be full and ready—
your husband’s pitcher
may be half-full. )
wake up a decade later
in the beds of men
we have no intention
of marrying.
We try to remember
our lists.
( Was “Virgin” a
requirement? )
Does God, aware
of the doctrinal insignificance
of contracts written with
washable marker,
understand loneliness?
That we, enlightened women
on birth control,
appreciate Their creating
compromise as a means to cope.
Our sleeping men
do not meet
our adolescent standards.
We tell ourselves
this is not important:
Kool-Aid expires,
can ferment if kept too long
in the cool and the dark.
Our men keep sleeping.
We lay quietly
listing and alone.