Nasty Girl
A circle of little girls
in pedal pushers yelling,
Hit her!
and I do,
punch her in the gut,
surprised at the force
of my fist
against her skinny torso.
She doubles over,
as if on a hinge,
and I flee.
Her mother finds me,
hiding
under my parents’ bed—
my parents at the grocery
—her finger pointing at me
like a drill bit.
I’m afraid
of her red mouth
that screams, how dare you!
I don’t know why I hurt
her daughter.
She stole my doll, but
I’m not a girl who hits.
Though I cower,
I taste the power
of intentional harm,
suck on its sour candy,
while I stay squeezed
out of reach, under the bed.