I didn’t hear it at first.

I was eleven, worn flip-flops

and scarred knees, waiting on the bench outside

for my mother to finish her hair. A car driving by—

I heard the wheels and then the shouting, unintelligible at first

and then I understood. They were loud, and I was so

alone, eleven years old in my pink sundress with the big pockets

and fifty cents extra change burning a hole in them,

the shame of my own body burning two holes

in my cheeks. The rain

was suspended in the air, invisible droplets

brushing up against my skin; it was only

a matter of time.