by Kate Brody

I wonder if my baby sister’s still a virgin.
She’s at that age where the answer
would be unsurprising either way.
When she does,
I picture a boy she knows from class,
a boy who plays varsity
but isn’t a starter,
a shortstop who shakes my father’s hand at the front door.
As he gropes at the seams of her jeans,
his hot breath is urgent on her skin,
her eyes can find his
and he’s shaking too.
When things end in weeks, in months
she’s the one to end things
and he doesn’t get a new girlfriend,
one with bigger breasts,
or maybe a cheerleader.

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