Augusta Could Be a Woman the Driver is Trying to Find

Girls talk about what it’s like, sleeping with a man.
   (I cannot relate,
turn my head for fear they’ll see my timorous face.)
  “Cross those
legs!” one says to the other. Another gawks at everybody’s
   drunk shoes.
I hide mine, the ones I stole back, from view.

Staring out the window, I catch a man at play, locking
   and unlocking
a Lincoln in the Murphy’s Law parking lot, recoiling from
   light like a wild
animal. But that’s just how I see him: in my life, men
   stalked my family’s
house, their hearts primed with pride, steadied on the
   virginal prize,
the more alluring sister.

Near Jim’s Restaurant, which boasts “THE BEST WESTERNS,”
   the streetcar
squeals with the universal truths of these young women:
   “You know me!”
But how to know anyone in this world of half-light,
   where girls speak so
boldly in the shadows, and I have no words, only dark
   secrets.

Couples relace their hearts, dodge the Seaton Street
   playground, sliding
misfit teens in and out of nobody’s arms. I long to join
   them in their tirade,
to speak the angry words I imagine they speak. At Church,
   men move
themselves through the dark like pawns. “Where are all
   the kings?” Mama
used to snivel. “What’s to become of us, you?” Her faith
   and blindness, once
upon a time, the same thing.

Bright headaches line Queen and Spadina streets,
   and “Augusta,” announces
the driver, could be a woman, or princess, he is trying
   to find. Just before 
midnight, Ali Baba’s neon sign a beacon directing me
   home. But I have no
fairy tale to go home to. I left that years ago. Those
   girls are also long gone,
their pink heels inventing new steps into the future,
   surging ahead, arriving—

I too am almost there …

—ADRIENNE WEISS

(Originally published summer, 2006.)