a-w-e-s-o-m-e

My elementary school was never able to afford 

multiple sets of pulled, shimmering pom-poms, 

so we made do with our fists and our voices and our hips.

Our school colors were green, purple, and gold, 

and we’d scream chants and move until our voices were raw

and our little muscles were sore with lactic bubbles. 

Mrs. A-manda; 

her hair was bright red and so I imagined her car was red too.

Not like blood—never like blood—but bright brassy reddish maroon

that shone in the Florida heat and diverted your eyes on the turnpike.

She’d tell me to fix my spaghetti arms and correct my out-of-place hips,

to tighten my back and remember the steps. 

I’m too afraid to google his name, 

or what he could look like, 

but I imagine he dribbled and passed until his voice was raw

and his muscles were sore and screaming. 

Maybe he was captain, body moving in tandem with his teammates;

all that matters, really, 

is that he still struggled 

over algebra homework 

and asked for twenties from his parents. 

Still picked out his outfits the night before 

and preferred pencil over pen. 

Too much untouched future to be left, 

corpse caressed in streetlight, 

by a speeding and shaking reddish maroon. 

Too young for her to pretend to turn back, 

to fake innocence, 

to act like she didn’t crush his chest 

under ugly red wheels. 

Cheerleading club was disbanded.