I Met My Younger Self for Coffee

Revisiting my girlhood, my bright young thing.

Women Bathing at a Forest Pond by Carl Spitzweg

After Jennae Cecelia


I met my younger self for coffee
on my 35th birthday.
She ordered a Mountain Dew
and asked if we could smoke outside.

I wore a little black dress and my hair
long as the Sunset Boulevard
she wouldn’t hear of till 2024.
My younger self wore a hot pink tee
and skinny jeans with her hair short
at Papa’s firm suggestion.
Correction: He ordered it. 
Obey or quit school 
and never see my friends again. 
So I grew secrets in my collarbones, 
and maps of escapades on my palms 
only this girl would know how to read.

I asked how she’s feeling
because nobody has ever asked her that.
She replied, I’m okay. I’m still alive.
That’s what I told myself all the time.

I was about to say  Stay in school
and then—

You’ll meet a pretty boy 
who’ll come up to you at the bar.
So tall and pretty—he could reach
every star and take one
for every minute he makes you 
laugh. 

Then my daughter, more brilliant than stars
and diamonds combined,
walked past the cafe with her friends.
She didn’t see us. 

So I took my younger self’s hands in mine
to tell her there’s more to learn
and more to see, more to hold
and more to feel.
I don’t know why I didn’t warn her 
about grief.

We smoked at the back with the barista
on his unscheduled break. 
She told him she loves his tattoo.
On his left arm was a fork-tongued 
leopard with scales for spots. 
And before she could ask for his number, 
I said Listen. You better tell Lola “I love you” 
every damn day. Help her scrub her back.
Be softer to the younger ones. 
Try, just try, to be a good sister.

I still didn’t tell her about the kid.

You’ll fall in love 
and you’ll be loved so much
you wouldn’t have to wonder why. 
Leave church, find god outside the city, 
and don’t worry about your tits. 
Don’t let your parents meet your lovers. 
Never strike back when you’re mad 
or as the wound stays tender.
Drink coffee in the mid-morning 
and smoke less. And less and less.
Find a book called Women Who Run 
With the Wolves. 
Don’t get married. 
Read more poems. 
Write. 

- Kristina Taylor

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