A poem I wrote years ago while channeling my inner angsty teen.
Flat refusal of reality
That’s what mothers are famous for, right?
Among other things
Don’t they know we’re not virgins?
I mean, they must know.
Maybe it’s more that they don’t want to know
Like, enforced ignorance for survival purposes.
Molly’s mother never seemed like she knew
When Molly was drunk
Even when she reeked of Wild Turkey
Leaned on me so she wouldn’t fall on the linoleum floor
Mrs. Reese would just say, “goodnight, girls”
And watch me walk upstairs half-carrying her daughter.
It’s the same with the pill.
Or if they find condoms in your purse or something.