Walking past poorly-spackled cracked brick houses,
when suddenly echoes of the words spoken by
the sex ed teacher haunt the back of your skull:
tales of spiked punch, confessing Saturday night
liaisons to avoid pregnancy in vain, pictures of STDs
taped onto poster board, whispers of so-called “whores”
who wore skirts that crept above the glittery fingertips.
You clutch the hallowed shell of the Snickers bar
you downed as you recall how you sat terrified
in the hallway, crying in your best friend
Amy Westohoven’s arms at the chastity campfire
story told by the woman in the cheetah-print cardigan
and cotton black turtleneck from Macy’s.