Every image reduces us to a single try.
The girl with a Russian last name and hazel eyes
attempts to be a model 'til her acne pops out.
The girl who seems to think
will learn how to reduce her years, eyebrows, and
a pair of freckles reflected in the scalpel.

Those who don't seem to stand out will never do
but will end up as a name on a desk
assimilating its distance to the garbage.
The girl who spoke funny will learn Spanish.
The quiet ones will learn how to moan.
The girl who lived around the block
will never leave her home,
but will forge her identity while crossing the street,
greeting the lady at the dollar store to buy bread,
which in time will lessen itself.
The girl who beat men will shave her chin
The girl with pearly whites will force out her dimples.
The girl with a wrinkled nose
will be the oddest and eeriest
in that way, the most attractive
'til she suckles at sixteen.

The boy who couldn't afford his uniform
won't have enough money to pay school for his children.

The girl who played with me will come back in her twenties
holding a passport, an accent, and a
face among the crowd, about to recognize me.
The girl who crossed her legs
opens it at age eleven as at twelve tonight.
The girl who was double my height
will have a lover double her age.
The boy who picks his snot
will smear his earwax under the college desks and
the table of his first living room set.

Those who didn't smile will learn to grin.
Those who raise their hand to believe they are right
will leave the room daily when a bell rings.
But those who fumble with lint in their pockets,
aside from staring through the bus window,
will surely collide again,
recalling how we pushed ourselves in the last school seat
so one of us, would step up in front

and cope.