It was the summer of ‘21.
Everyone had bacterial vaginosis.
The roaring twenties are back, baby!
We took our heels out from the backs of our closets
And dusted them off. You’re in New York,
You’re allowed to cough again; you’re allowed
to contract a virus or infection. When we go to the Upper East Side,
taking the silver underground snake from our
Pest-filled, vest-filled Village dream, you’ll
Turn to me and say, I feel like I’m in Europe.
We are in Europe! We’re in Europe and the Americas
And in the sky and the ground all at once.
Jump into the East River and see if you get a burning rash.
Womankind was meant to live like this -
Within ten minutes of each other by foot.
The sanctity of female friendship! The rats in the
First Avenue L station! The taste of true adulthood:
Trader Joe’s extra firm tofu roasted in a smoking oven.
Girls everywhere are putting hardcover books into tote bags.
When it rains for three days straight, we lace up our boots
and face the wet world. Freeze the summer in a photo:
the purple strobe lights of Catch, Meatpacking at midnight,
We’ve been drunk all summer long, we’ve been shaking
Hands with the bacteria. Nothing can hurt us,
We have no Achilles’ heel. We are just young, and fun,
And in love, and we all have BV.

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About the Author

Mia Marion is a poet, writer, and citizen of a metropolis considered modern, currently residing in New York. She has been published in Thimble Literary Magazine.

Mia Marion
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