When I was sixteen
Jumped to the conclusion that I was a nymphomaniac
Just because I slept with a man
And wrote anguished poetry about it
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
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
Which of course it didn’t
Not in the very least.