In a glinting sidewalk glance, I spy
the dime-size medal
of Mary on the pavement, flicking
splinters of light
behind my eyeballs, a lighthouse beam
twisting into my pupils,
and then I’m bent, lifting it in one cupped palm,
wondering, Do you girls
still pin these to your panties, a muffled chime
against the boys’
wayward hands? I can still taste my own medal,
unpinned for showering,
balanced on my tongue, as though through Mary
and metal, I would never
hunger again. But then it slid out, hot and wet,
and slipped onto
my safety pin, and pinned back onto my panties,
and clinked against
my warm skin. Do you girls still do that?
The metal tangs my tongue
even still.
————
Diana Smith Bolton is the founding editor of District Lit. In 2015, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Cactus Heart, Cider Press Review, Coldnoon, The Gambler, Gargoyle, If and Only If, The Pedestal, The Pinch, Shot Glass Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in northern Virginia.
THE FEM 