Melissa DeGezelle

CHEWING GUM

I worry about the men I think come in
my window at night, and then drive
away on motorcycles.
And I worry about the girl we didn't know
in the car with friends, drunk and asleep
who thought someone said we're home.
Opening the passenger side door, she fell out,
going at least 55 on the highway.
I worry if I shouldn't wear the red dress.
And I worry that I don't know what a tampon is
and someone might ask.
I worry that Lisa Wilson already knows how to read
and I still worry that it was my fault
my cousin burnt his body
bad enough to be helicoptered
to the hospital, because I saw him
playing with matches the day before.
I worry enough that I forget I have a piece
of cinnamon gum in my mouth and chew it
past the sweet, through the night, maybe hoping
my little head stress will leave
and my spine and muscles behind knees can relax.
It's from the pack my father gave me when he
stopped chewing gum, after he stopped smoking.
The sound of the enormous alarm clock,
and it's always commercials at 7:45
to catch the 8:25 bus at Davis Lane.
I wake to find my hair fixed to my lips,
a long pink string like a mouthpiece
or a gag, and my worn nightgown is stuck
to my belly, in my button, strapped
to my nipples and fuzz.
My mother is unusually calm, and lifts
me into the bathtub, calling the neighbors
who have been getting up with their children for years.
One says, Peanut butter might help.
The inevitable haircut, angled bangs
of embarrassment makes me think of the many times
I wet the bed and she was too tired to soothe me.
She'd say, Change it yourself. And I wouldn't.
I'd just lie on the wood floor outside my parents' door,
blowing saliva bubbles and listening
to their collective breath wisps, aching
for that empty inch between them.