When I was sixteen

My mother

Jumped to the conclusion that I was a nymphomaniac

Just because I slept with a man

And wrote anguished poetry about it

In longhand

While sunbathing on the roof of our apartment building.

Too bad I couldn’t keep that notebook

Full of deeply embarrassing images.

In case I should ever feel snooty

Or superior

Reading those poems would keep me humble.

As it was my mother found the book

And threw it down the incinerator chute

A very aspirational act of destruction

As if burning the poems would change

My trajectory.

Which of course it didn’t

Not in the very least.