So your kid says to my kid
You look like a self-harmer

Your kid also says to my kid
You have perfect breasts
You're the only one who 
can compete with my boobs.

Your kid also says to my kid
How do you stay so skinny?

Your kid hunches over to
show my kid her fat. She 
grabs a fistful of belly,
wants my kid to see it.

Your kid hates my kid,
most of the time. 
She hates her and laughs
at her and fears her and wants
something from her--
but who can say what that is?
Can you help me understand?

So-and-so wanted to go all the way
with that kid in our class,
my kid says to me. 

Did she? I ask.
Can't it all just be talk?
People talk, after all. It's sad, how much
people talk about other people.
We can't ever guess at another kid's life.

My kid shrugs. She can't make sense
of it. She doesn't speak the language
of sixth-grade girl. She doesn't like
the way it sounds, the harsh bleating,
the hissing and telegram stops.
She has other things on her mind.
For now, at least.

Look, I don't know what my kid
says to your kid. I'm sure there
have been some doozies. Your kid,
she won't even look me in the face
anymore. I don't know why. I want to
fix it, but I can't. I don't want to go back
to the summer before seventh grade,
all Duran Duran and biting electric razors
in pastel clam shells.

What should we women be
saying to each other? 
What should we be saying
to our daughters?

I'm fresh out of new ideas. Every day
I scratch her surface with a coin.
I never win. No three-in-a-row,
not even a two-liter bottle of Pepsi.
Another day, another lottery ticket
discarded. I can't tell you how much
money I've lost, trying to bust her code.

Something's not quite right here.