Nafkot is Too Young to Vote
She is her own
brown, the shade that boasts
“I’m a hundred and twenty pounds of dark
chocolate.”
She dances for the high school team
with the girls who have lately
furthered the forehead wrinkles
her Ethiopian mother scolds her for deepening.
They crease from shock, but also
from her laughter. Just one
and she counters the angry
kids who skip
the bleachers to read Baudrillard
and pop their pimples.
Nafkot—she radiates.
She knows herself,
or is starting to. This is why
they call it magic.
I think she will continue to go by
“Nafi” for now—goes over better
with the girls on the dance team.
Though I can’t tell you why,
I see Nafkot bleeding.
It’s not exactly without or within,
but there is so much sting it’s red.
All I know is I’m watching
from velvet theater seats while Nafkot bleeds
out through the screen and onto my lap,
all over my popcorn.
