At thirteen my daughter chose her own swimming suit,
a bright pink two piece for someone with a figure.
The bikini’s leg holes arch over her thin hips,
over those twin bones still closed like folded wings.
After every dive she adjusts her bikini
bottom, arranging it around those hips that float
like hard white dreams beneath her brown skin.
The bikini top crawls up her chest when she swims,
the underwired cups reaching up like open hands
searching for the gift of breasts, ready to shape her
into someone’s dream. She checks her top every time
she surfaces, tugging it into place, checking
for progress maybe. I want to say, “Be Patient.
Enjoy the simple line you cut through the water.”
But boys are already calling her friends, and she….
Well, she wants her body now.