Bianca

Bianca


Jelly bracelets materialize from under
the black lace of the 80’s and slink up

the wrists of girls, vibrant rubber bending
to the touch: great propensity for snapture.

They’re pop bracelets, says my 13 year old
niece. She’s cinch-waisted, eyebrows

manicured to a constant state of surprise,
my Harriet Tubman,

this adolescent underground—
these naughty rings coded like Spirituals.

If a boy breaks a blue bracelet, he gets a blowjob.
Red stands for lap dance. Clear means anything he wants.

She says the game is called “snaps.”
I ask: but isn’t that talking bad about

somebody’s house, or their mother? She shrugs.
All she knows is that green’s for outdoor sex.

Silver for fisting.




© Samantha Thornhill

Previously published in Indiana Review