Left Behind

Left Behind

Mary Ann Stratton

I was tired of being left behind,
an eight year old
standing in the driveway with
old Mrs. Slaymeyer
who said "ma'am?"
instead of "what?"
while you,
all
of you,
piled into the gold station wagon
drove off to a
PG movie
on Family Night
without
me.

And as you three
slipped into your
Gunnysax dresses
and high heeled shoes,
I sat on the couch
with Dad
watching the powder blue, ruffled boys
pin carnations
to your lace
while he watched
re-runs of
Barney Miller
and nobody noticed
the look on my
face.

I could not keep up with
your conversations,
the secrets and giggles I was
too young for,
or words like
Vietnam
Watergate
that I could not place.
I didn't know enough to have an opinion
that mattered,
but I wanted to say
something.

And how unfair that
you all got to watch me,
from your comfortable distances;
patronizing witnesses
to my body's transformation-
thighs too thick,
breasts too small,
goofy glasses,
tinfoil teeth,
my awkward puberty,
my teenage
rage.

So when the girl
who passed me my first joint
said I was old enough,
and the boy with his hand between my
thighs
didn't say
I was too young,
I believed them.
Because I wanted only to be
someone else,
someone pretty,
someone who knew things,
someone besides your
baby sister.

I abandoned her.

With each inhalation
I betrayed her.
With each fornication
I forsake her.
In the bottoms of ashtrays
I buried her;
in the bedrooms'
of strangers
I left her
behind.