As Girl
Annie Wenstrup

At six being a girl meant Tinkerbell
nail polish and pointed, pink Barbie shoes.
Sequined fairy wands and slippers that fell
off my feet when I ran. Outside the blue
sky a backdrop for green grass, the sweet
June tree that was home base. Everything caught
my eye sparked. Rain-freshened earthworms,
armored rollie-pollies, and firefly dots.
At night the television played the news.
Its cyclopean eye returned my stare.
The got-like purple reflected a parade
of women and girls like ewes. Fair 
and lovely. I thought they were adored.
Later, I was not a girl anymore. 

Annie Wenstrup is the poet and author of  
The Museum of Unnatural Histories.
Awarded the tenth-annual New England 
Review Award. She lives in Alaska.