She 4.0 athlete crowned for popularity.

 

She silver cross necklace resting against her chest and on Sunday matched with a dress.

 

She riding shotgun in the quarterback’s lifted, red Jeep Wrangler to find a make-out spot before school.

 

She spends weekends with the girls. Sleepovers, boy talk, trampolines, and playing ball.

 

She whose legs boycott her contrastingly open, free spirit. She refuses to commit.

 

She the hope, she the future, she the legacy. She deserves the world and more.

 

She the golden child, is going somewhere-

Anywhere. Out of here. Halls of Ivy drawing near. Momma raised me right. Don’t worry, dear.

 

She thorn tortured hands stained with summer’s blood of blackberries she picked

For you. You have to be proud to have a girl like her. To watch. Her

 

Artificially straight teeth. Her

 

Melanin lacking eyes rumor her smile imitates.

 

She sitting on the roof in the balmy humidity of a southern spring night, looking to the stars for answers about the dirt. Her curious eyes never lack lust for exploration. For explanation.

 

What if, right now, he places the imaginary I in the stars, crafting stairs for me to climb?

She eyes closed, but still seeing.

I can see it. He will reach down his hand. A gesture, a peace offering.

 

She walks to the edge of the shingle lining, toes overhanging the loose metal of the leaf filled gutter. Her daring nature makes your already anxious heart walk to a faster beat but you wait and watch, watch she as herself until she slides back in the window and lays her head against your chest.

 

//

 

She lost her last soccer game in the third round of state playoffs. High school sports drew their last breath so she will have more time with you. Together.

 

She the individual not she the yours. Remember.

 

But she says she loves you to the moon and back. She must be yours forever.

 

She spends summers with the girls. Lake trips, ice cream, boat rides, and watermelon.

 

She brings her friend, the soccer coach fresh out of college with her. Curious. She never invites someone with her friends this much. You do not ask irrational questions, you are glad she continues making friends. She is still yours and every day you wait awake, well past the set of the sun; she always comes back in the silence of night and tells you about her fun.

 

Momma raised me right she said to her, the coach, looking back at you with a playful laugh and creasing eyes. Laugh Laugh.

 

Laugh a lot but less with you.

 

She cannot be caged. She will push away, push away

 

Your forever, it’s becoming untethered. She, you are sure, is hiding more.

 

//

 

She college; crying on the phone to you. Her, the coach, moved far away for work. And you, you are fictitiously sad, but your love for her remains. It will always remain. You offer you. She needs you. She cannot see your relief; you have your love back in your arms. She can be all yours again.

 

//

 

She spends her time with the girls.

 

She met a friend while counseling at church camp who she says you will like.

 

She is a good girl, her momma raised her right.

 

You love what she sees in others.

 

A mouth so honest and a heart so pure

 

She babbles on and you become unentertained. Like my soul mate, she says. And feelings regained. A minute to an hour to two. You worry, you ask, you plead,

 

“Please tell me you do not” you pause, like if you let your language rest, so will the fuse.

 

“Do not… Like her… do you? Like more than a friend?”

 

She, the golden child, looks down. A single bead of water glides from her eye down her cheek, dropping off of her chin onto her slim, tan thigh, rolling off into the fabric of her grey Nike shorts. The brightly coated paint grew thin and finally, just barely, you could see in.

 

I’m sorry

 

She wears dresses, she has friends, she believes in our God. She cannot be…

Be gay. Or lesbian, or queer, whatever the word she cannot be. She is your girl, your entire world. She could not possibly know.

 

She of a phase, she of college. You will be judged, she cannot tell. Your uncle is a preacher. Your friend is too red. She crying, you yelling. Blame!

 

Blame her dad; what he did what he is.

 

She claims she does not want this, you tell her not to be this but she is she and will always be, you taught her that, but not for this, this you do not deserve.

 

She with a voice so engulfed in pain. She hands shaking holding her knees to her chest, her toes curled under her long slender feet against the cold hardwood floor of our once warm home.

 

She the could have been. She the lost hope. She the golden painted affliction.

 

She needs you. You could lose her. Is she worth the looks you will get at church? Or the fewer number of likes on Facebook? The ignorant questions from old friends? Where did you go wrong?

 

You thought you raised her right.

 

 

Abigail Mabry is a senior at the University of Georgia. This poem was written in response to Ocean Vuong’s poem Trevor while studying abroad in Cortona, Italy in the Spring of 2017.

She knows her way around the soccer field, has the world’s cutest dog Cooper, is an avid reader, and writer, and has the brightest smile ever.

Stay tuned for more of her work.