Last decade, Jenny was jumping on
trampolines after softball games
and teaching all the girls new curse
words. She’d spill Sprite in her
fiery hair and cackle until her
eyes welled up, then she’d sprint
all the way home and pull a dusty music box
from under her bed and squeeze
her eyes shut so she didn’t see
the tears splatter on the little ballerina
twirling away naivety. She never knew
the scent of old mahogany
would slam into her
on lonely Thursday evenings, years later,
in the bowling alley where she
sits by herself and watches
the pins fall over
and over. She never was
as graceful as they.
And the scent makes her head
spin and her breath shake and her
knees ache and her eyes water and
when she squeezes them shut
all she sees is every drop of herself she
spent in youth, now dried up
like old Sprite in her hair.