She takes a shower every day
and cuts her hair five times a year
but secretly
she longs to be adventure girl;
swinging from the trees and bathing like a monarch
half-naked crazed and dreadlocked
living with the birds
and sister to the wind.

She doesn’t care much
for the colored slips of paper
the machine spits out at her
and she doesn’t understand why
they bleed each other in their hurry to obtain.
She buys a second pair of black flats
she doesn’t want to need
for the only shoes adventure girl wears
are the color of skin–
skin that’s been moisturized with sunlight
not sunblock.

She eats with a fork and spoon
but what she longs for
is a good helping of uncivilization, please,
they can keep their dishwashers.
She loves her skin that’s coarse and covered
and doesn’t understand why she should poke it
and scrub it and slash at it so much.
Let me go into the jungle please, she thinks
as they take her further and further
into the museums and restaurants and concrete stillness
and ooh and awe over plastic
imitations and tamed recklessness.
She wants to see real recklessness.
To be real recklessness.
To eat with her hands and run bare shod in the grass and taste sweat and sea water and golden sunset rays and
never mildly discuss weekend plans or where are you from or how do you like it here or what are your plans for after this
because adventure girl doesn’t plan a lick,
her being sisters to the wind and all,
so why can’t she do the same?

She sits in her blue plastic folding chair
squished right up to the sliding glass window
and it’s dark outside and hot
but the door is open and the breeze is fresh.
She stares
at the three little stars that have battled their way to her eyes,
against the power of the city lights
and smoggy polluted clouds of anguish,
she understands them.
She is one
with them.
She, too, is fighting her way to the surface,
struggling against the might of the skyscraper
scraping at her skin making it milky–
she doesn’t want to be
milky.

She doesn’t want to be
so clean
so civilized.

What she really longs for
is to be
herself;
adventure girl.


The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my experience.

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