Oklahoma Weeds

Mommy ties my tennis shoes on the front deck
With red paint peeling itself off the grey wood
That leads down to weeds almost my size.
“You're such a pretty girl,” she says.

Pretty is the smell of fingernail polish,
The glitter my sister showers on herself and gets stuck in the carpet,
The clenching of my teeth beneath the hairbrush,
The shuddering that hairspray sends up my spine,
The sweaty wait beneath the curling iron.

Beauty is the smell of three-leaved clovers,
Sparkling dew on spring grass,
Songs of sparrows in the morning,
Wolf howls riding on the wind,
White bursts of dandelions beneath my breath.

“You don't want to play princesses with your sister?”
Mommy says as she ties the last knot
And lets me go.

I am running down the red steps now.
I am going to be an Indian,
Wild as these Oklahoma weeds.