Quincenara looks like “queen,” sounds like “keen” –
keen as I was at fifteen
to shed baby from cheeks,
to whittle waist into woman.

I sharpened wiles on the wild –
     boys made bad from boredom
     or fathers who left too soon –
quenched thirst with Little Kings
snuck from R’s father’s fridge.

I chugged one, held another
to my left ear until numb enough to
plunge needle through tender lobe, to
fill hole with mama’s filched diamond.

I had already learned not to cry,
to pretend nothing hurt.