A boy hits puberty, and other things.


There was a lady’s face
‘part 2 lab 2 Saggital Section’– she screamed,
high and shrieking, when
we pulled her out of the bin of heads
in the Stratchona Anatomy Building:

“Yes! That was *my* dress!”

Men own women and
women own dresses.

They mark the prices by gender.

“I bet he just stared at me” she continued,
angrily, “je vais demenager ce mois, en Ontario!”

My student nearly dropped her.

“They do that sometimes,” I clarified.

“All of them?”

“Only the women – and never during final exams.
They don’t like helping the students too much –
now:

we’re on our own, so study.”
We’re on her own
face, and this is the mysterious feminine stuff
all the boys want to know about.

“I’m leaving your clothes around next time,
see how you like that” she intones, helpfully.

He swallows her words in a gulp that
sticks to his Adam’s apple.

Men don’t know what to do with guilt;
it builds up in their throat, calcifies,
turns their voices hard and tight, chafes
at their voice box; this is puberty;
people call him a man now, the moment he learned
how to never say sorry.

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