by Deirdre Fagan
When you are 13 and poor,
even Taco Bell has an allure.
The Monte Carlo that held us
had a sheepskin bench seat.
Its soft cover like a fitted sheet
curving its corners like a cloud.
Seatbelts weren’t worn in 1983;
no need for slits to let safety peer in.
“Come closer and you can steer,” you said.
Nearly half my current size, no breasts,
thighs the width of my current calves—
I leaned full-bodied into the drive
eyes on the road, mouth watering,
drive-thru beckoning.
(What is there to taking a young girl?)
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When you are 13 and poor,
even Taco Bell has an allure.
The Monte Carlo that held us
had a sheepskin bench seat.
Its soft cover like a fitted sheet
curving its corners like a cloud.
Seatbelts weren’t worn in 1983;
no need for slits to let safety peer in.
“Come closer and you can steer,” you said.
Nearly half my current size, no breasts,
thighs the width of my current calves—
I leaned full-bodied into the drive
eyes on the road, mouth watering,
drive-thru beckoning.
(What is there to taking a young girl?)
Deirdre Fagan is a widow, wife, and mother of two who has published poetry, fiction, and nonfiction in Amaryllis, Eunoia Review, and Poetry Breakfast, among others. She is also the author of Critical Companion to Robert Frost and has published a number of critical essays. Fagan teaches literature and writing at Ferris State University where she is also the Coordinator of Creative Writing.
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