When I was a teen, so absorbent,
My friend and I would share our coins,
To buy a magazine.
We’d huddle on a bench – slatted,
Or on a bank, with Mars wrappers – scattered,
Cool pages across our knees,
Glossy, exciting, promising
Lives we would never live.
Perfect bodies and laughing faces,
Set in time.
A feature, not physical, spoke of hygiene.
Always dry under your breasts it urged,
That evening, I explored with fingers,
That area, and wondered where,
Water might linger beneath or between.
Now I know!