Cotillion was the first solution, six weeks of standing by the punch while brace face boys in their fathers’ ties stepped on the pretty girls’ toes, hands hovering at backs, brushing the fabric. I blamed the ratio, then my mother, then the boys and girls waltzing inside me, stumbling over flat feet and desire. I never could tell who outnumbered whom. Mother bought me foreign potions, invoked lasers and wax to allay the wild topography of my face, but new growth grew all the time. My whole me grew out and stretched up and when the scale tipped my mother made fasting day, rub a good hipbone day, there are stars inside your head day. I’m proud of you day. Outside I became smooth, but something unsolvable stirred. Who is it inside me that pulls from my mother and into the arms of other women? She says it will pass, this wanting. She says, when I was you, I had an encounter with a woman and she passed, and yours will too. That is, unless I reach back, pull her toward me, sway with her to the unsung song.

LILY GREENBERG is a poet from Nashville, TN, currently pursuing her MFA at the University of New Hampshire. She graduated with a BA in English Literature and French Language, followed by a year in Northern France working as an English teacher. Her interests include translation, book-binding, blues music, and trail running.