Thirst for One Single Impression

The Thirst to Fit In

The Beatles
are singing,
“I Want to Hold
Your Hand”

on Anita’s record
player. I’m sitting
in her kitchen
with ice cubes

on my ears.
As she pushes
a darning needle
through each one,

I hear the crunch
of cartilage.
She inserts
the tiny gold studs

then hands me
a mirror.
I see the beginnings
of conformity

sitting like birds’
eggs in the nest
of my lobes. Curls
frame my face

as unfashionably
as ever, though.
“Hey, you wanna iron
my hair now?”