Poetry by Hadley Dion

              ​Peter Corbett CC



Coffee Milk 

Lounge in pink petal pajamas, sleepy, soft
bedtime rebels. Giggling at
secrets shared in blush cover of 
slumber party night. 

Anya’s dad cooks pancakes with blueberry 
smiles. While batter mixes, he offers us 
coffee milk. 
A Sunday morning delicacy.
Cream drowns the bitter that I am 
so eager to embrace. I want to drink up being a woman, 
no matter how sour. 

I don’t know my cotton shorts will soon be stained, 
my mother will teach me to scrub away 
my shedding horizon. 

I don’t know that Anya and I will suck in our candied pot bellies,
begging the mirror to take 
away our undesired flesh. 

I don’t know that I will debut shaved legs 
to Anya’s dismay. On playground bench,
she will tell me hair grows back coarse. Warn me 
once you start, you can’t turn back. 

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Hadley Dion is a writer, audio editor, and filmmaker from Los Angeles. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in Witches Mag and Bandit Fiction. She is fond of self-help books, lapel pins, cats, and ghosts. 
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