growing pains

April 22, 2017

you remember when you were young, when you were eight nine ten eleven, when your mother would take you to the salon, to the little room where they would lay you down and strip you bare spread wax on your body like it was honey.

 

they would cover your limbs, your armpits, your tummy. flesh bare skin raw, they’d lay down strips of cloth paper and rip the hair out of you, rip it from you as if it was a mistake, as if that’s what it would take to make you beautiful.

 

when you turned twelve you asked your mother if you could stop. you showed her your armpit, freshly shaved, and said there’s nothing there, it just doesn’t grow there anymore. beautiful, you said. look how beautiful.

 

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Kari Teicher is a Toronto-born poet who bounces coast to coast to write & touch the ocean. She has a BA in History & Writing from the University of King's College & Dalhousie in Halifax. She is currently completing her MFA in Fiction at the University of Victoria. Her poem "growing pains" is one of the first prize winners in the poetry category of our inaugural Short Forms Contest.

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