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| Phyllis McGinley |
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| Portrait of a Girl with a Comic Book | ||||
| Thirteenīs no age at all. Thirteen is nothing. It is not wit, or powder in the face, Or Wednesday matinees, or missesī clothing, Or intellect, or grace. Twelve has its tribal customs. But thirteen is neither boys in battered cars nor dolls, Nor Sara Crewe or movie magazines, Or pennants on the walls. Thirteen keeps diaries and tropical fish (A month at most); scorns jumpropes in the spring; Could not, would not fortune grant it , name its wish; Wants nothing, everything; Has secrets from itself, friends it despises; Admits none of the terrors that it feels; Owns a half a hundred masks but no disguises; And walks upon its heels. Thirteenīs anomalous-not that, not this; Not folded bud, or wave that laps a shore, Or moth proverbial from the chrysalis. Is the one age defeats the metaphor. Is not a town, like childhood, strongly walled But easily surrounded; is no city. Nor, quitted once, can it be quite recalled- Not even with pity. |
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