Recorded by the author at The Mark Twain House & Museum, July 22, 2025
i.
infant excitement–
like the sting of the bee if it was sweet like honey.
mom ties your hair back,
the elastic pulling at your brunette locks
& the butterflies rush to your stomach.
the fluttering in your heartbeat doesn’t stop;
until the needle gun is up against your fragile ear lobe.
its pencil-sharpness will linger,
you’ll kiss the stab of the gun,
hold your new silver-steel earrings dear;
oh, the joys of turning five years old.
once the lump in your throat clears,
once the tears stop swelling,
you ask mom when you’ll be a big girl.
What do you mean hunny?
a nose ring; that’s what you wanted, needed.
as if it’s the epitome of teen fashion,
a must have accessory–
like there was some sort of secret freedom in the small stud.
one that you were dying to have.
ii.
Sit at the same Claire’s accessory shop that pierced your ears,
same leather barstool,
with the same stud gun that brushed your earlobes at five.
& mom still pulls your hair back,
before the needle hits your pores–
but it’s different this time.
This time the needle is more.
Like late night shifts at Big Y & like hitting the pavement while behind the wheel.
& like college– the dorms, the food; the cost.
& it hung over your head as so far into the future but here it is, right in front of you.
Oh, the joys of turning sixteen.
I’m not kissing the stab of the needle,
or swallowing tears of pain;
I am clutching to my final years of adolescence.
& the stud on my nose is the last stab from my youth.