BIG ETHEL by catharine chen I. There are two of us in kindergarten. Blonde Ethel, ballet-slippered, keeps our name, and I, with bowl-cut and ruddy face am forever christened Big. But at recess I am the one who rounds up the other girls to chase the boys, kiss them and make them cry.

II.
I am the girl who hogs the swings at lunch,
daring landbound boys into the arc of my pointed feet
which do not shy from trying to kick them where it counts.
I ride high to slices of cloudless sky,
certain I could reach the roof of the primary
if I pushed hard enough.
Once, I close my eyes, my stomach turning,
find myself lying in the woodchips,
splinters worked into my sweater, my hair,
my eyelashes, the rest of the day.

III.
I am the one with buck teeth, three heads
over everyone else, even while sitting
on the loser bench at the back of the gym.
All bone, no fat, nothing to migrate and transform
to breast or hip. The others slow-dance.
I wear bows and horizontal stripes.

IV.
I’m the good friend, the moral of the story:
It’s what’s inside that counts.
When it’s sunny I’m the plank in the bikini, straight line
against so many curves.
My only-ever boyfriend beside me:
Jimmy, the blind kid. His hand light on my shoulder,
I help him home over the dunes
before they’ve even lit the bonfires.
I am a punchline.
 
V.
In college, I’m that girl at the party
who spends all night crouched in the corner
behind a line of frat boys.
You try to ignore me, standing as close to the stereo
as you dare, but I know you recognize me.
Later, when you’re feeling loose and numb, maybe then
you hear my slurred laugh, glance over
as I swig my beer, wipe my mouth
with the back of my hand. Maybe you
catch my eye, remember then
the shape of my nose, how I used to be
the tallest one in the room.