My First Thong
My mom bought me my first thong
from the Target on Hamilton Street.
Grey, pattern-less, inch-wide
hip straps were her compromise
for her ninth grade daughter.
Locker rooms became fashion shows
of floral mirages overlaid with lace and buttonholes.
Other girls claimed their womanhood
through Victoria’s Secret labels and
bows positioned discretely above the crotch.
Its plainness went unnoticed, ignored
while I listened to coos, classmates complimenting
their friends’ newest purchases.
Its fabric hung together loosely
by threads of cheap elastic,
that dug and imprinted their tread marks
on my peach-fuzz coated upper thighs.
The first boy to see my first thong
Pulled at its cheap elastic
Untangled it from my toes
And I threw it out immediately after.