I do not know what pronouns to use
for the girl I was at nine years old,
sitting across from another girl

who was not a girl at all. As he bit
into his burrito, I imagined that one of us
was a boy– it didn’t matter who– and we

were on a date. I imagined that we
had driven to Taco Bell in my lime green
convertible, that I steered with one hand

because he was holding the other. I imagined
that he looked like John Lennon in his round
sunglasses, that he’d insisted we eat here

because of how much I loved the bean burritos,
saying it’s alright babe, I don’t mind. I imagined
that he always called me babe, that our whole

life was a sleepover that never ended.
At nine years old, our hands were too
small to know what it meant to hold

each other, though we held on through
sweaty palms and wayward glances
from strangers in line to order their

crunchwraps and double-shelled tacos,
too rushed to call us out for being dykes.
They would have been wrong and right

about who we would become. Now, we attend
colleges on opposite sides of the state,
only meet in the summer. We never say

anything about the burritos we ate
one-handed, though we still look into
each other’s eyes without daring to ask

what we’re looking for. Our Taco Bell
has been gone for years now. Another
restaurant stands in its place. We drive

away in seperate cars. In a year’s time,
he will no longer know what to call me,
and I will begin to hate bean burritos.