Anybody Can Grow Up to be President

Our science teacher said, 
“Acorns grow into wood.”
Charlie and Branson snickered
and grabbed their pants
behind her back.

Next day, I planted an acorn
between my legs.
It wouldn’t get much sun
so I pressed to the window
and lifted my nightgown
hoping moonrays brought nutrients.

Maybe the acorn would grow like a mushroom
sideways from a moist log.
I began to wish my legs would rot
and frogs and centipedes move in.

When that didn’t work
I planted a cherry pit
between my legs
because the dictionary said
it’s slang for hymen.
A goddess, I thought, in charge of love.
Then I figured it out.
Cherry made sense, 
because the pit is somehow
a round seed
and a hole you fall into.

When it grew so tall that we could sit 
beneath the cherry tree’s shade,
I hoped that Georgie might come along
with his chopping hatchet so fond,
and on his knees confess
to idle crimes of the White American.
He’d take my grubby hand before his father.
“I cannot tell a lie, sir,” he’d tremble.
“I cannot tell a lie.”

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