MICHELLE MCEWEN

Growing up Girl 

Look at us:  
daddy’s little angels 

filling out our bras 
and blue jeans. 

Not yet thirteen 
but looking like we sixteen. 

There’s a 
sort of 

blasphemy 
in our blossoming. 

Mamas look on— proud 
of the hips they passed down: 

dangerous  
and round. 

Summers 
will be different now

that the neighborhood boys 
are coming ‘round.