DANCE DANCE HIBERNATION

Other seventh grade girls were squirrels, but in spite of prenatal gel caps and acorn pancakes I could never grow a tail.  I gnawed the edges of magazines decrying fashion's turn toward feral, prodded my nipples and wished there were more.  I stared from the ground, offering sodden sandwiches, cups of birdseed they ignored to leap sycamores and pluck glow-in-the-dark fleas from furry undersides, smoking pinecones, braiding.  Avoiding shaving, I sought oversize mohair sweaters, to hide my opposable thumbs.   I chased them from the mall to the playground, set out pink lipstick tubes and audiocassettes and sequined training bras, twizzlers, tampons, high-heeled shoes, painted nails, waiting--desperate--as they sneered at my smooth legs and gigantic brain.