Cancerdancer

Cancer is the guy you try not to look at

in the halls of junior high,

the one with fuzz on his upper lip,

whose clothes don’t fit,

whose hair needs washing.

You hold your breath when you pass,

hoping he won’t try to grab a feel.

You make yourself small,

hunch over your books,

praying he won’t notice you.

Cancer walks across the gym floor and claims you,

grabs your dance card and initials all the spaces—

no chance now the cute new boy,

(too shy to speak

though he smiles at you)

will dance with you.

No, you are stuck with this boy

his bad breath and sour smell,

except for the dances you spend in the bathroom,

crying, ruining your makeup,

the curls of your upswept hair falling out.